


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
Genre: Bandom Holiday Exchange 2017, Charming!Pete, Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Maybe a touch of magic, Peterick, Smut, Snow, Snowboarding, grumpy!Patrick, holiday fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: When Patrick is dumped by his long-term boyfriend right before they take their annual snowboarding vacation, he knows he needs to do something drastic to win him back. But, like, not something completelyridiculouslike paying the resident snowboard instructor to pretend to be his boyfriend. That would beinsane...Wouldn't it?





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkilljoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkilljoy/gifts).



> So, I didn’t want to say anything when this published in case I gave the game away. Of course, doctorkilljoy worked out it was me immediately - apparently I’m terrible at stealth.
> 
> Thank you so much to the various Bandom buddies that looked over this/listened to me whine about it for weeks; Flames_and_Jade, the_chaotic_panda, Das_verlorene_Kind, Semi_Sweet - you guys are amazing, thank you so much.
> 
> Doctorkilljoy, I truly do hope you like it.

_~*~ December 19th ~*~_

 

Fuck Gabe.

 

Okay, fine, that’s a relatively new sentiment, Patrick is the first to admit. Usually there’d be a comma between the words and he’d be groaning them into the crisp cotton of his pillowcase as a quick, clever tongue did dangerously enticing things between his cheeks. But that was before Gabe sat him down in the living room of their beachfront Malibu home – no, _Patrick’s_ home – for A Talk.

 

_We need to talk_.

 

Those, Patrick muses as he shoves another cardigan into his case along with seven other close to identical cardigans, are not words that anyone in a relationship wants to hear. Apparently, it translated to Patrick needed to listen whilst Gabe spent one hour and thirty-seven minutes listing all of his flaws with PowerPoint precision. _Apparently,_ Patrick is a workaholic with no time for a relationship. Which seems just a little unfair coming from the man that’s been happy to reap the benefits of Patrick’s hard work if it meant he could lounge around on their – _Patrick’s_ – couch in his underwear, eating Goldfish crackers and watching reruns of Two and A Half Men.

 

That was almost five weeks ago. Just over a month that Patrick has spent locked in his home studio listening to Prince, drinking expensive scotch and pointedly ignoring calls from Joe. It’s not like he’s not capable of running the studio alone and if a couple of bands have to wait for their mixes then Patrick isn’t going to lose any sleep over it. Take that, accusations of workaholicness… Workaholicy… Workaholism. Yeah. That sounds right.

 

But through a haze of Purple Rain and decent malt, a thought occurred to Patrick, and once it occurred to him it wouldn’t leave him alone, winding around him and poking at him, prodding at all of the tender, bruised places until he grabbed for his phone and scrolled to G in his contacts. Three rings and a gusting sigh, “What do you _want_ , Patrick?”

 

“`S’bout the vacation, Gabriel,” Patrick slurred through the warm burn of alcohol and the cold sting of rejection. “Eagle Point. Next month. How’re we gonna work this?”

 

Privately, he’d congratulated himself on making it through four whole sentences without passing out or breaking down and it was almost worth it to hear the confused hitch in Gabe’s breathing, the annoyed sigh as he huffed out through his nose and into the mouthpiece. The obvious irritation warmed Patrick a little as Gabe hissed through gritted teeth, “You don’t _like_ snowboarding, Patrick. Why don’t you just let me – ”

 

“Nuhuh,” Patrick shook his head vehemently, even though Gabe couldn’t see him. “`m goin’, `s my vacation too, y’know. Why… Why _shouldn’t_ I go?”

 

“But…” It was one syllable, just a click of noise down the line and into his ear but, even through the fog of whiskey, Patrick knew. Gabe had a replacement lined up, a “someone else” to join him on the slopes and to slip into the hot tub out on the deck of the luxury lodge that Patrick had paid for. He knew and it hurt and he’d cry about it later but for that moment, just in that second, it felt good to scupper those plans.

 

“I’ll change my flight,” Patrick informed him, tongue thick and brain buzzed. “`S a two-bed cabin. Think we can be… Mature enough. `S fine. We’re all… All adults here, right?”

 

And so, it’s decided. Patrick will go on the damn skiing holiday and he’ll… He’ll sit at the bar and he’ll look good and Gabe’s going to remember all of the great times and there’ll be, well, Patrick hasn’t really got a plan but like, a reunion or something? Dramatic. With music and sweeping up in tanned, muscular arms. Yeah. The details will come later, the most important thing is that Patrick gets there first and bags the master suite in the lodge because he is _not_ being relegated to a twin bed whilst Gabe humps whoever-the-fuck-it-is on the king size four poster.

 

The problem is, Patrick decides, surveying his suitcase filled with his trusty cardigans, band shirts and button downs, his awards suit zipped away into a bag _just in case_ , is that Gabe is actually right. Patrick really _does_ hate snowboarding. He hates it, and he hates being cold and he hates the fact that he’s going to be stuck in the middle of fucking _Utah_ with an ex so recent the wounds haven’t even begun to scab over. But – here’s the real kicker – one of Gabe’s meticulously scored out list of faults was stubbornness. Oh, Patrick is so goddamn stubborn. He won’t back down, not an inch, not for a second, this is _his_ vacation too, dammit, his two weeks booked out of the studio to spend some time recharging. So, he’s going to go to Utah and he’s going to drink Irished up coffee and sit in the hot tub and, like, _read_ or something.

 

Gabriel Saporta can go to hell.

 

_~*~ December 21st ~*~_

 

“I’m on vacation, Joe,” Patrick’s boots crunch through the snow as he trips his way unsteadily towards the lodge. “You’re just… Look, it’s almost Christmas, just tell Brendon we’re shutting down for the holiday and I’ll speak to him in January.”

 

“You were supposed to be done with those tracks two goddamn weeks ago,” Joe explodes and Patrick can picture him pacing the expanse of their office, curls a mess, a clutch of paperwork in his hand. Patrick loves working with Joe, he really does, but sometimes he wonders if he’s working with a man in his twenties or a Jewish grandma. “He’s gonna hit the _roof_ , man!”

 

“And this is why you’re the publicity guy and I’m the music man,” Patrick soothes, hurrying as much as he dares on the ice as he catches sight of the welcoming glow of twinkling lights up ahead. His breath hangs as thick as mist in front of him, icy clouds that remind him just how cold it is out here right now. It’s Chicago cold – maybe colder, cold sort of reaches a point where _colder_ loses all meaning – and LA has turned him soft, shivering into the collar of his coat, silly trapper hat pulled low. “You’ll think of something. Have a great Christmas, Joe! Give my love to the family!”

 

“No! Don’t you dare hang-” Patrick cuts him off with a smooth glide of his thumb over the screen – and a silent curse at Joe for making him yank his glove off in the first place, if he loses a finger to frostbite he’s firing him – shutting off the phone with a sigh and stuffing it down into his pocket. He’s going to get chewed out for that in the new year, it’s neither big nor clever but, truly, at this point in time, he’s not sure he cares.

 

Oh, but it’s almost worth freezing his ass on a treacherous and surprisingly badly lit trek from the cabin to the bar as he steps into the glorious warmth of the lodge. There’s laughter ringing through the rafters, smiling groups of happy holidaymakers artfully positioned around the room and the image of Christmas past is perfectly complimented by the huge fir tree that dominates the centre of the room, bedecked with ribbons and trinkets and thousands upon thousands of twinkling points of light. Best of all – Patrick hurries forward, kicking snow off his boots with renewed vigour and yanking off the dorky hat – is the bar, ranged against the wall and flanked by a fire that looks like it might go some way to taking the chill from his bones. His coat is discarded on a convenient hook and, smoothing down his cardigan, he makes his way to the sweet solace of alcohol and heat.

 

“What can I get for you?” The bartender asks, all smiling eyes, crisp white shirt and geeky little bowtie. Patrick likes bowties. He squints at the name tag and slips off his fogged-up glasses, buffing them against his sleeve.

 

“Well, William,” he raps his knuckles lightly against the smooth, polished expanse of wood between them. “My boyfriend just left me and I’m here out of spite so… Why don’t we skip right to the big guns, hmm? Scotch on the rocks, but replace the rocks with extra scotch, please.”

 

William, like all good bartenders, is adept at providing a sympathetic ear if it means a patron will keep lining the cash register with fifty-dollar bills. Patrick has money, more money than his relatively simple tastes really know what to do with, and certainly enough to keep tipping decent scotch down his throat as William makes sympathetic noises. Enough money soon creates a scenario in which there’s enough scotch to stop him from noticing the knowing twinkle in William’s dark eyes. Enough that it seems like a damn fine idea when Will – they’re friends now; Will is fine – leans up against the bar with a suggestion tripping from the tip of his tongue.

 

“So, your ex is here to snowboard?” He asks casually, buffing a tumbler to a glittering diamond shine that reflects back each sparkling point of light in the room as he holds it up to check for smudges.

 

“`S’right,” Patrick nods unsteadily and wonders if it’s too late to start alternating whisky and water. “He’s one of those adren- adrenny- andrenly...” _Adrenaline junkie,_ he can talk, it’s just not easy around a tongue thickened by whisky, “Idiots. He’s an idiot. Likes throwing himself down mountains n’ out of planes n’ shit.”

 

“Well,” Will twinkles like the Christmas tree, all sly suggestion and not-so-subtle hints. “Why don’t you learn? Maybe you can impress him if you can join him on the slopes?”

 

Snowboard? To impress? Patrick tried it once and can all too clearly remember clinging to Gabe like a terrified baby koala as they edged their way back down the nursery slope. Gabe had left him sipping a restorative cocoa in the lodge, safely deposited by the fire with a good book whilst he took off with the handsome friend he’d insisted on bringing along for company. They hadn’t returned until the early hours of the morning, long after the slopes had closed but… Patrick hadn’t questioned it too closely. But maybe Will’s right, he certainly sounds convincing, all bright smile and shining eyes.

 

“What’re those?” Patrick asks in plaintive tones, pointing to the array of strange-looking bottles in interesting colours lined up on a shelf beneath the usual spirits. Patrick could be imagining it, but he thinks Will may have been adding a drop or two here and there from this bottle and that into his drink as the night has gone on.

 

“Now, Patrick,” Will grins a tease into his collar, straightening the ice tongs on their little tray. “That’s a trade secret. So, about these classes…”

 

“`m not takin’ _baby_ classes,” Patrick mutters into his glass, punctuating it with a sickly hiccup. “`m not embarrassin’ myself with goddamn five years olds.”

 

“No, of course not,” Will soothes. “I have a buddy, he gives private lessons. Let me set it up, you can meet him at the rental shop tomorrow at nine. Now, in all honesty, Patrick, I think it would go against everything they teach us at bartender school if I served you another drink.”

 

“`m goin’ anyway,” Patrick grumbles, taking the hint and staggering to unsteady feet with a delicate belch. Wait, there’s a bartender school? He’ll think about that later. “What’s his name? This snowboard dude?”

 

“Pete,” William grins and Patrick’s just a little too drunk to notice the knowing little curl of his lips, just a little too far gone to hear the insinuation loaded heavy in a sentence that reads as nothing more than innocuous reassurance. “I think the two of you are gonna get along _great.”_

 

_~*~ December 22nd ~*~_

 

Nine the next morning finds Patrick cold and shivering miserably in his thick ski jacket, pants, gloves, boots and hat. Nothing keeps out the chill, it seeps under his clothing and seems to be made worse by the knowledge that, by the time he returns to the cabin for lunch, Gabe will be there. Gabe and a possible Someone Else. Gabe who’ll sigh and shake his head at Patrick’s hangover and childish insistence on taking the master suite.  The knife lodged sharp between Patrick’s shoulder blades seems to twist a little deeper as he sighs deeply and, scuffing at the fresh powder, glances around for his instructor.

 

“Patrick?” There’s a voice that rings with Chicago and a smile as blinding as sun against snow, a gloved hand held out for him to shake. “I’m Pete, your instructor.”

 

“How did you know it was me?” Patrick bristles with irritation borne from the hangover slamming its way through his skull and the indignity of prising himself from his bed a clear three hours before he would consider it a reasonable time to be conscious.

 

“You’re the only grown dude hanging out by the nursery slope looking worried,” Pete grins all bright and teasing behind his goggles. “You were a pretty easy spot.”

 

That’s reassuring. Patrick scowls into his collar and yelps as a tiny avalanche of snow drifts its way from the overhang of the roof above him and deposits itself entirely down the back of his neck, squeezing its icy, dripping trail through every tiny crack in his full body wrapping to slick, cold and unpleasant, down the tender heat of his back. Pete laughs like it’s funny and, with a board under each stupid arm, strides away across the slope leaving Patrick with very little choice but to trot along behind.

 

_Okay, game face, Patrick, maybe this can be fun?_ Maybe, if he stops being so negative and tries to enjoy himself, he can pick it up this time. Pete’s a professional, he must know some tricks. Then, once he’s confident, he can invite Gabe out onto the slopes and they can have their moment against the backdrop of mountains robed in snow and scattered with pine trees. It will be beautiful and perfect and everything Patrick’s been imagining since he forced himself onto a plane in LAX. That’s the dream.

 

In reality, he lasts approximately eleven and a half minutes of Pete’s patronising repetition of _relax your knees, your knees, Patrick, relax them, no, that’s the opposite of relax, just relax_ before his fuse – admittedly already short – runs out and the end of his rope is officially reached.

 

“Snowboarding is ridiculous,” Patrick announces loudly, struggling to kick his feet free from the stupid board. “This outfit is ridiculous, this mountain is ridiculous, fastening my feet to sixty-four inches of fibreglass is ridiculous and _you_ ,” he points squarely at Pete who pushes up his goggles and widens his eyes – copper bright, twinkle sharp and framed by thick, dark lashes – innocently, “ _You_ are fucking ridiculous.”

 

“So… Not enjoying it?” Pete asks mildly, catching Patrick and steadying him against his chest - solid, even through the jacket and Patrick is getting goose bump shivers - as he wobbles on his bound feet. “Click ‘em to the left, dude. Like I told you.”

 

“Okay, _dude,”_ Patrick snarks, twisting his foot painfully to the left with a strangled yelp, kicking his way free with a series of curses that just seem to make Pete smile. Pete is a dick, Patrick has decided but he’s also sort of handsome – _liar_ , Pete is divine – and an idea is forming that seems to fountain its way from his lips before his brain has chance to intervene, a tingle in his chest and a tightening of his larynx that he can’t seem to control. “Okay, look, I can’t snowboard but… Be my boyfriend.”

 

“Uh, okay,” Pete rolls his eyes and dusts snow from the board Patrick has kicked across the slope. “Hello, high school.”

 

“People asked you out like that in high school?” Patrick queries, somewhat jealous. _No one_ asked him out in high school. “Anyway, no. Not my _real_ boyfriend, obviously. I can’t impress my ex with snowboarding but maybe I can make him jealous. With you.”

 

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?” Pete folds his arms and assesses Patrick, head cocked, expression unreadable. _“How_ old are you?”

 

“Twenty-nine,” Patrick begins eagerly, missing the sarcasm in the question entirely. “I like Korean food, I don’t follow sports, my favourite band is-”

 

“Dude,” Pete interrupts him with a laugh. “Shut up, I’m not being your fake boyfriend.”

 

With that he grabs a snowboard under each arm and begins to trudge his way down the nursery slope and towards the rental shop. The idea is stupid, Patrick knows it is, he should just head back to the cabin, pack his suitcase and get to the airport. There’s still a couple of days before Christmas, he could get a flight to Chicago, go spend some time with his mom and…

 

“I’ll pay you,” he calls at Pete’s retreating back. A back that, along with the rest of Pete, pauses and tenses, head tilted just a few degrees like he’s listening. Patrick pays for many services; he has a cleaning lady, a man that takes his dirty laundry away and brings back ironed and laundered perfection, a gardener, an accountant, a lawyer and, he thinks, _maybe_ a personal trainer. Been a while since he’s seen _him_ though. Anyway, he pays people to do things he can’t do himself and, seriously, he can’t be his own boyfriend and he doesn’t have a whole lot of options halfway up a mountain in Utah. “Seriously. I’ll pay you.”

 

Pete turns, amber eyes thoughtful, lip caught between his teeth and Patrick is suddenly struck by the notion that he’s actually… He’s pretty cute, well, from what he can see between the stupid unicorn hat and ridiculous Super Mario scarf. Like, if he _had_ to pick from a line-up of guys that might make Gabe jealous, this guy would be pretty close to ideal. _That_ kind of cute.

 

“Isn’t that… That’s prostitution, isn’t it?” He asks. There’s a moment or two of silence between them, Pete still contemplative, Patrick blushing furiously because no -  _no_ \- he didn’t mean it like _that_ he just… Before he can open his mouth to object, Pete continues with a smirk that curls right the way up to eyes the same colour as the whisky Patrick would very much rather be partaking of right now. “How much?”

 

Look, Patrick knows it’s a bad idea, alright? He _gets_ that. It’s completely ridiculous but maybe, just maybe, if he can introduce Gabe to his “replacement,” he’ll feel a little less small and unloved. Maybe, if Gabe sees him with a handsome stranger he’ll rethink some of the hurtful things he said and reconsider his decision. It’s a lot of maybes but they’re all Patrick’s got so, instead of laughing and pretending it was just a dumb joke like a sensible person, he pauses, considers a fair wage for the level of work and makes his proposition.

 

“Five hundred a day. Plus expenses,” he shrugs, considering Pete’s truly awful lime green jacket and striped orange and red pants. The expenses he has in mind definitely revolve around some appropriate “boyfriend” attire. “And I’ll book you out solid for private lessons for the two weeks I’m here so it won’t affect your job. Look, why don’t we go to the lodge and discuss this over a drink? You’re booked with me until lunchtime, right?”

 

With a slow nod, Pete seems to agree, striding off towards the rental shop with purpose as Patrick hurries in his wake once more. He’ll be a little more relaxed, a fraction more confident once they’re sat opposite one another at a little table by the fire. It would almost be romantic if he weren’t discussing his proposition to buy Pete’s company to make his recently ex-boyfriend jealous in an attempt to win him back that seems more and more futile the more time he devotes to thinking about it.

 

Fortunately, when he emerges from the employee lounge in his street clothes, Pete looks a lot more acceptable than his dire choice in ski attire would seem to attest. Once he’s seated on a wingback armchair in the bar across from Patrick and clad in black skinny jeans and a hoodie, his hair a dark, tufted mess from his hat, he makes quite an adorable prospect. Add to that a strong jaw and lush, rather kissable-seeming lips pursed in thought and puckered to strong, steepled fingers and, in other circumstances, well, Patrick could possibly develop a little crush.

 

“And what do I have to _do_ , exactly?” Pete narrows his eyes suspiciously and Patrick feels the burning heat of a blush creeping up from his collar once again.

 

“Just hang out with me, say nice things about me,” Patrick shrugs helplessly – is this guy for real? How hard is it to behave like a boyfriend? “Basically, you can go out there,” he jerks his head back in the direction of the slopes, “And spend the next two weeks in the cold teaching rich, bored assholes how to snowboard or – ”

 

“I can take your money,” Pete cuts him off with a grin that’s all tease and merriment. “And spend it sitting in here pretending to _date_ a rich, bored asshole. Okay, a thousand dollars a day?”

 

“We agreed five hundred,” Patrick’s teeth are clenched so hard he can almost hear his dentist wincing. Pete is smiling wide with blinding brilliance as he sips his hot chocolate, latte lip smudged with cream that’s swept away by the curve of a pink tongue and Patrick isn’t – he swears he isn’t – thinking about doing it himself next time. It’s downright annoying how these thoughts keep burning through his irritation.

 

“I think you _suggested_ five hundred,” Pete counters. “Right now, we’re negotiating.”

 

“Negotiate this,” Patrick raises his middle finger with a grin that’s all raised eyebrows and sarcasm, Pete’s eyes widen in a parody of shock, jaw slack with a mocked-up animation of horror, held for a beat before he floods with a smile.

 

“You’re good,” Pete laughs and leans back with a shrug. “I mean… Sure, I’ll do you the honour of being your fake boyfriend, let’s make… Wait, what did you say his name was again?”

 

“Gabe,” Patrick sighs, the reminder sharp in Pete’s words. This isn’t normal flirting, this isn’t the promise of good things to come, it’s Patrick paying a dude he met less than an hour ago to pretend to like him for enough time to either win Gabe back or to deaden his embarrassment at being alone in front of his ex.

 

“Gabe,” Pete repeats with a nod and a smirk. “We’ll make him hate us, dude. Swear to God. Okay, I just need to head back to my chalet and grab my stuff, how far away is your cabin?”

 

Wait, what?

 

Patrick blinks at Pete, cup halfway to his mouth, mouth halfway to open, words halfway to his tongue as he thinks and tries to work out why Pete would need to remove anything from his chalet and why it might have something to do with the distance between Patrick’s cabin and the bar. Pete blinks back, snaking out a hand and snagging a marshmallow from Patrick’s cup, a sunrise slow smile lighting the room as he leans back.

 

“Why are you fetching your stuff?” Patrick asks, punctuating the question with a sip of his drink.

 

“Dude, seriously?” Pete scratches his stomach revealing a faintly ridiculous-looking tattoo etched between honey gold hipbones and Patrick reminds himself sharply that it’s not polite to _stare_. “You want Gabe to believe that we’re serious enough for you to invite me on vacation but we’re not serious enough to share a room? Or a cabin? You want a fake boyfriend? Well, buckle up, ponyboy, you’re about to get the Pete Wentz Boyfriend Extravaganza.”

 

“This,” Patrick groans around another mouthful of cocoa, cream and confectionary. “Was a really fucking bad idea.”

 

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Pete raises his eyebrows nonchalantly.

 

“Ask you _what?”_ Patrick is almost scared to hear the answer.

 

“If I’m into guys,” Pete shrugs, amber eyes aglow with curiosity and firelight, flame bright.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick returns the gesture with a smile he doesn’t feel, the cool blue of his eyes will quell the flames, he knows. Gabe told him he doesn’t shine, a black hole. “I just need you to pretend.”

 

_~*~ Later that evening ~*~_

 

Pete suits candlelight just as well as he suits firelight, golden flame licks highlights of copper and gold against his skin, paints him with shadows that smudge him softer at the edges. Patrick’s wondering why he brought him somewhere quite so _romantic_ for dinner – an impulse he felt strangely unable to ignore – and didn’t just take him to the burger bar further along the resort.

 

“So, whereabouts in Chicago are you from?” Pete asks, chin propped on his hand as he regards Patrick over their crostini.

 

“Evanston, originally,” Patrick licks a crumb from his fingertip, considers the consequences of doing the same to the smudge of sauce on Pete’s lower lip. “But I grew up in Glenview, it’s – ”

 

“No fucking way!” Pete practically squeals and Patrick jumps – hard – casting a wary eye at their fellow diners. It’s not the Michelin starred place he would’ve taken Gabe but it’s still relatively classy and shouting at the dinner table is strictly verboten. “I’m from Wilmette!”

 

Minutes and more are lost to the comparison of notes, of friends in common – they have none – of schools attended – different – of whether or not the little diner with the roller-skating waitresses is still operational between their suburbs – it’s not, they tore it down and built a Denny’s. It’s ridiculous, Pete opines, to remove tradition. It’s progress, shrugs Patrick with the pragmatism Gabe said robbed him of romance. Pete just smiles though and Patrick could almost pretend he’s having fun, could almost relax a little but a familiar voice sets his heart to a messy gallop, restricts his lungs to a strangled gasp.

 

“Patrick?” It’s Gabe, all smiling eyes and towering height and a chest Patrick isn’t allowed to press himself to any more. It’s Gabe in the button-down Patrick bought him for his birthday and the oxygen has left the room. It’s _Gabe_ with his hand on the shoulder of someone that looks familiar – Andy, Patrick’s personal trainer, good to know the retaining fee has been put to good use – and Patrick is stutter-stammering an introduction.

 

“This is my… boyfriend. Pete,” Pete is quiet, eyes narrowed, handshake brief. “He usually dresses better than this but we thought…”

 

Patrick trails off as Gabe laughs in his expensive shirt and Pete gapes – crestfallen, hurt, no, that’s not what Patrick _meant_ – and Andy smirks like a man who wants his face punching. But, you know, by someone bigger than Patrick. There’s a call for more chairs and somehow, he’s pressed up, miserable and hot with shame, next to Pete as Gabe and Andy grin at them like a couple that do everything as a “we” and Patrick wants to sink through the floor.

 

“So,” Gabe asks, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a smirk. “Where did the two of you meet?”

 

“Well…” Patrick trails off, heart hammering wildly. Shit, shit, _shit_ , why didn’t he think of this before?

 

“Can I?” Pete flutters his eyelashes and slips onto Patrick’s lap. He winds his arms snugly around Patrick’s neck – damp with cold sweat, in case anyone’s interested – and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek that very nearly finds him dumped straight onto the floor. “ _Please_ , Trickerdoodle? You know I love this one!”

 

Okay, let’s get one thing absolutely straight, Patrick does _not_ trust Pete at all. Not one bit. Not as far as he could throw him which – given how deceptively goddamn _heavy_ the son of a bitch actually is – wouldn’t be particularly far. But since he’s currently staring into the abyss of a brain devoid of plausible ways he met this grungy asshole with his badly fitting shirt and too-tight pants, and given Pete seems to actually have an _idea_ , he acquiesces with a nod dressed in a gusting sigh, “Sure.”

 

“Okay, so I’m working my shift at Go Go Boys,” _Oh God, no._ “And who should call me over for a private dance but _this_ gorgeous dork.”

 

Patrick is going to kill him. He’s planned murders before – usually Joe’s – he’s done his research and now knows of about seventeen different ways to dispose of a body and he’s pretty sure he can buy himself an alibi if he tosses enough fifties at Will the bartender. Yes, this is it, he’s going to take Pete out into the forest and beat him to death with his own stupid snowboard. Then, he’s going to resuscitate him and beat him to death _again_ , just for good measure.

 

“You met at a strip club?” Gabe’s isn’t smiling anymore, he’s open-mouthed with shock and Patrick is burning with well-deserved embarrassment.

 

“Hey, now,” Pete admonishes, bopping Patrick on the tip of his nose with a finger he’s lucky isn’t immediately snapped off. “We prefer _gentleman's club_ , don’t we P-Bear? Anyway, I danced for him and, well, I don’t mean to _brag_ but I can do this thing with my hips,” he demonstrates with a roll that makes Patrick wriggle uncomfortably against his chair with an undignified little squeak. _This_ is a family resort and _that_ was inappropriate, “and he just couldn’t resist me! So, here we are and just falling more in love every day, aren’t we, shnookums?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Patrick agrees through the blaze on his cheeks. He deserved that. “Couldn’t be happier.”

 

Patrick pushes at his crème brûlée in silence once Pete has slid off his lap and into the warm embrace of his chocolate parfait but it’s okay, Pete is charming and smiling, touching his hand or his cheek in convincing little displays of affection. Patrick relaxes, Patrick starts to have _fun_. Don’t judge him, okay, but it’s _nice_ to laugh with a handsome dude, to rest his hand on a warm knee, to open his mouth to taste a little of Pete’s dessert. They’re sickening, ordering champagne to celebrate their first Christmas together – _first_ _of many, Trickserbelle_ – a dark head tucked under blonde hair as Gabe looks thoughtful.

 

“I hope you don’t mind that we took the master,” Patrick slurs, drunk on golden bubbles that tickle his nose. “`S’just… First vacation… ‘s special, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Andy mutters sullenly into his Sprite and fruit salad - veganism is a bitch - bitter brown glare focused all on Patrick. “We’re fine in a twin bed.”

 

“You’re too kind, Andy,” Pete declares, already on his feet and pulling Patrick with him. “You’re a treasure, a gem, a _total babe_ …”

 

Pete carries on singing endearments as they shrug into their coats – Pete’s is still lime green, still awful, Patrick’s is still expensive and understated and purchased from a boutique in Beverly Hills and no way suited to the mountains of Utah in December – and crunch their way along the path. There’s breath rising like steam from Pete as he walks and Patrick wants to lean a little closer, to take it into his own lungs and feel it, freezing warmth, suffusing through him from the inside. Pete’s the most irritating person he’s ever met, dancing down the frost-dusted sidewalk but there’s _something_ , some tingling compulsion and notion that overrides sensible thought.

 

Mostly, he thinks it’s that Pete’s insanely pretty.

 

There’s silence in the cabin as they strip off coats and hats and boots, just the thump of feet against wall as snow is kicked off and the low hum of the heating system warming the room. Oh, sure, there’s a wonderful fireplace all stacked with logs but – embarrassingly – Patrick has literally no idea how to light a fire. He’s lived in LA for a decade, he barely knows how to operate the fancy air-conditioning system in his house.

 

“I’ll light it tomorrow,” Pete nods to the fireplace like a goddamn clairvoyant. “I guess you don’t know how?”

 

“Fuck you,” Patrick snaps, because seriously, who does Pete think he is? “I could light a fire; how hard can it be?”

 

Pete just smirks, infuriatingly self-assured as he grabs himself a beer from the comically large, shiny fridge. Irritation strikes a beat in Patrick’s chest – those are _his_ beers dammit – and he wants to say something, to put Pete in his place but really, what can he do? _Hey, put my fucking beer down and get back to being my fake boyfriend?_ Ridiculous.

 

He’s tired though, it’s barely eleven but his eyes sting with grit, his bones aching with exhaustion from the early start and the emotional wreckage of seeing Gabe with someone else and so, with a yawn, he inclines his head towards the staircase and murmurs his excuses into his shirt collar.

 

“Look, man,” he sighs like remorse. Like he doesn’t want to run as far away from pretty amber eyes that know the truth – he’s paid him to be here – like he isn’t embarrassed and regretting the decision to leave the familiarity of his home, his studio, his safe places. “I’m absolutely beat, I’m gonna head up to bed but… Like, help yourself to anything, food, beer, TV.”

 

There. He’s been a good host. Pete nods his approval and smiles a goodnight as Patrick takes the stairs with a heavy heart and heavier feet. Not a moment too soon, apparently, as he hears Gabe and Andy crash into the cabin as he’s pulling the bedroom door closed behind him. He pauses, head cocked and listens to an awkward exchange of greetings, to Pete’s declaration that he was just waiting for Patrick to slip into something more comfortable. He scowls, he can _hear_ the dramatic wink in Pete’s voice as he sings out a goodnight, hear the shit-eating grin in the dance of his feet against the treads and then there he is, large as irritating life, in the doorway of the bedroom, hands on his hips like Peter goddamn Pan.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Patrick,” he declares in tones that ring through the cabin and Patrick’s ears, that colour him as red as Pete’s shirt. “Is… Is that even _legal!”_ With that he pulls the door closed with a thump and a twinkle as he hisses like a conspiracy, “Get on the bed! Come on!”

 

“Why?” Patrick snaps, eyes wide with panic; this isn’t a service he intended to pay for.

 

“Look, they think I’m a sexy stripper,” Pete whispers. Well, maybe Pete _thinks_ it’s a whisper. Patrick’s pretty sure they can hear him back in Chicago. “He needs to think we’re up to naughty things!”

 

Patrick stares. Patrick’s lips move but sound doesn’t come out for the longest moment as he twists at the hem of his cardigan and tries to voice all of the many reasons that Pete is an asshole. Instead, when his tongue loosens, he finds the only thing he can mutter is, “I’m going to put on my pajamas. Please be decent when I get out of the bathroom.”

 

“It’s okay,” Pete calls after him, all theatre. “They’ll just think I have my mouth full for this part.”

 

When Patrick returns, dressed in an old Bowie shirt and flannel pajama pants, Pete is stripped to his boxers – tacky, hot pink with neon green stars – on the bed, casually thumbing through a well-worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye. He glances up with a grin, wiggles his hips suggestively and calls out a throaty, “Oh my _God_ , Trickerdoodle, don’t stop…”

 

Trickerdoodle? Patrick rolls his eyes, determined that won’t stick.

 

“Put on your pajamas and get off my bed,” he instructs, pointing to the perfectly adequate couch in the corner.

 

“I don’t wear pajamas, and this is my bed too, Trickserbelle,” Pete pats the mattress invitingly, Patrick feels he has very little choice but to lay down. “He’ll know if two people slept in the bed or just one, pillow dents, man, they give you away. _Fuck, Patrick, just like that! Oh, take me, you stud!”_

 

The last sentence is loud and horrifyingly close to Patrick’s ear, punctuated with the squeak of the bed springs as Pete rolls to his knees and begins to bounce. There follows possibly the most excruciating ten minutes of Patrick’s life so far, all squeaking springs – honestly, he would have expected better from a luxury cabin, he’ll be mentioning this on Trip Advisor – and loud moans and groans before Pete reaches his dramatic conclusion, collapsing to the mattress with a wail and a grin that sparkles like mischief. Patrick wonders if he can smash the ice on the nearby lake and drown him successfully without anyone noticing.

 

He rolls over, his back to Pete and the covers drawn up to his chin, questioning each and every decision he’s made in his twenty-nine years of existence that have somehow led him to this very moment. And, as Pete curls into his back in a way that’s horribly presumptuous, he can’t find the words to voice an objection, particularly as Pete murmurs a sweet, “Mm, you’re fuckin’ _toasty_ , dude,” all soft and warm in his ear.

 

Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll buy Pete some goddamn pajamas. Then he won’t have to rely on body heat.

 

_~*~ December 23rd ~*~_

 

Patrick has spent most of the day listening to ridiculous innuendos and double entendres from his delightful sham boyfriend. Sham _stripper_ boyfriend, he corrects himself irritably as they walk down the main street of the resort. It’s been dark for a couple of hours already and the lights strung back and forth across the street twinkle like fireflies, joining the festive glow of the Christmas tree outside the lodge and the wreaths that glitter and gleam against doors and lampposts. Pete’s hands are tucked into his pockets, the imprint of Patrick’s elbow no doubt still stinging on his ribs from when he attempted to link their hands. Patrick had _told_ him he didn’t mean any offence by it, he’s just _not_ a PDA kind of a guy.

 

Pete still sulked until Patrick bought him a churro.

 

“So, hey,” Pete begins with a shrug, head inclined towards the lodge. “Will sent me a text earlier, he said something about some old booze that needs using up and he won’t charge. Want to go get tanked up for free?”

 

Something about that offer doesn’t sound quite right to Patrick but free booze is free booze and honestly, a sandwich at the bar for dinner sounds wholly preferable to a repeat of the restaurant performance with Gabe and Andy. What the hell, it might even be fun.

 

Of course, it’s inevitable that Gabe has had the self-same idea, seated at a table in the lodge’s restaurant area and picking at a sandwich that seems to contain avocado and alfalfa sprouts whilst glaring jealously at the turkey club sandwich on the plate of the man at the next table. That’s exactly the kind of comeuppance he gets for leaving Patrick – who would have quite happily been splitting a plate of cheese fries with him right about now – for a my-body-is-a-temple, fitness guru vegan. Or Fun Sponge, as Patrick has taken to thinking of him.

 

Patrick orders the turkey club with a side of fries, just out of spite.

 

Will, it transpires, really is willing to pump the two of them full of entirely on the house booze. Patrick’s not sure it’s wise to partake of out of date alcohol although a small voice is asking him when whisky ever had an expiry date. That voice can shut up, he decides, there’s nothing weird about this, nothing strange at all about the twinkle in Will’s eyes or the way he fiddles constantly with those strange bottles behind the bar.

 

He’s distracted from questioning Will once again by Pete’s excited squeal, “Dude! It’s karaoke night! I completely forgot!”

 

“Wonderful,” Patrick frowns into his drink. He can sing, he knows that, he’s laid down vocals for enough bands, heard his voice on the radio in the background of dozens of chart hits – even more that never make the charts. He can belt out a tune and hold the room, he’s not bragging, it’s just the truth. But… Karaoke? With Pete? In front of Gabe and Fun Sponge? He needs another drink.

 

“Come on, man,” Pete encourages him, truly awful Christmas sweater ablaze with coloured lights twisted around Rudolph’s antlers. Where did he even _find_ something like that? “Just relax, have fun. We’re young and in love!”

 

There’s a nasty sort of sting in Patrick’s chest because, actually, let’s be real, _no one_ is in love with him right now. And what if they never are again? What if this is a slippery slope to a lonely old age where he pays pretty boys to sit on his lap and call him Daddy? Oh god, the thought is horrifying, he signals for another whisky and wonders if there’s enough booze behind the bar to help him through the next week or so.

 

An hour later and Patrick isn’t sure there’s enough booze in the _state_ to see him through the night.

 

“Could you remove the stick from your ass?” Pete hisses, eyes narrowed as he scowls at Patrick across the table, it’s on the tip of Patrick’s tongue to remind him he’s free to leave at any time. “ _Everyone_ likes karaoke, don’t they?”

 

“`m having a good time,” Patrick takes a passive aggressive swig of his drink – he’s sure some might argue that it’s not possible to drink with passive aggression, those people have never met Patrick. “There’s nothing up my ass.”

 

“You want to do I Got You Babe?” Pete asks, glancing down at the song selection. Patrick snorts derisively. “Okay, how about If I Could Turn Back Time parentheses I’d Pull The Stick Out of Your Ass Before We Left the Cabin close parentheses?”

 

“Ha… ha…” Patrick twitches uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt and nods towards the stage. “He’s the fourth – the goddamn _fourth_ – drunken asshole to murder Sinatra tonight. Is no one… Is no one even _paying attention_ to what’s going on up there?”

 

“Damn, you take this seriously, don’t you?” Pete grins all bright and glowing and _why_ isn’t he wasted when he’s been tossing back booze like it’s going out of fashion. “My miniature master of musical marshalling.”

 

“My actual asshole of asshattery,” Patrick swipes back and winces as the guy currently crucifying My Way hits a particularly sour note. “This is torture. Actual torture. I’m, like, ninety-eight percent sure this is in the Geneva Convention.”

 

“Congress never ratified the Geneva Convention,” Pete is examining the song list once more but it’s clear that he can _taste_ Patrick’s shock from across the table as glances up with a lazily raised eyebrow. “What? I _almost_ have a poli-sci degree. I know _some_ smart person stuff.”

 

Pete went to college? And to study Political Science? That… That’s sort of surprising. Patrick frowns at him with renewed interest because, okay, it’s not that Patrick had him entirely written off as some kind of loser snowboarding bum, it’s just… Okay, that’s exactly what he thought. And now he feels like something of an asshole for making assumptions and judging a book by its cover and a dozen or more other ridiculous turns of phrase that all mean _don’t be a fucking dick, dude._

 

“Okay, fine,” Patrick forces a smile and tries not to look at the way Gabe is stroking Fun Sponge’s hand a couple of tables across. He grabs for the song list with hands that only shake a little and wonders why it isn’t working, why Gabe isn’t stealing jealous glances at Patrick and Pete. “Let me take a look.”

 

Pete seems to read Patrick’s mind, all thoughtful glances as he pulls his chair closer and mutters under his breath, “Aren’t you going to ask? _Seriously?”_

 

This time, Patrick doesn’t need to clarify. _This time_ , Patrick can continue to stare down studiously at the book in front of him as he murmurs like his conviction isn’t wavering, “I don’t need to know. You’re pretending to be my boyfriend; the details don’t matter.”

 

“You should kiss me,” Pete flexes his fingers like he’s thinking of taking Patrick’s hand.

 

“Kiss- _kiss you?”_ Patrick’s a stammering blush glowing bright in the dimly lit room. Pete, by comparison, is all smoky eyes and soft, pouted lips as he leans closer, hands still awfully close to Patrick’s.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, still thoughtful, like he’s just thinking this through. “I mean… You want to make him jealous, don’t you? He’s not gonna get jealous if he never sees us touch, is he?”

 

“After the performance you put on last night,” Patrick begins haughtily.

 

“During which you were _entirely_ silent,” Pete cuts him off with a shrug. “Not very convincing.”

 

Patrick looks down and blushes a red so bright it puts Pete’s twinkling sweater lights to shame because Pete doesn’t know – can’t possibly know – that Gabe always complained that Patrick never offered any cries of ecstasy when they were in bed together, always complained that Patrick was silent and insisted on keeping the lights off. Pete doesn’t _know_ that so Patrick shouldn’t be burning crimson, shouldn’t be shooting a miserable glance at Gabe from under his lashes and wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing here. Pete doesn’t know that Patrick just didn’t know how to let go, that he _wanted_ the sex to be fired with passion – who wouldn’t? Gabe’s _beautiful_ – but something always held him back.

 

He darts another look at Pete’s lips – plush against his thumb as he bites at his nail – and tries to imagine kissing him. There’s a weird feeling in his stomach that he can’t blame entirely on the booze, a fizz and a tingle and, with a determined little huff, he looks down at the song sheet. Eyes scanning for something, although he’s not sure what, until he sees it and nods with a self-satisfied sort of smile. Perfect.

 

He fills out his card and hands it to the DJ, waits anxiously through two more Sinatra numbers and Build Me Up Buttercup before his name is called and he takes to the tiny stage. He forces himself not to check the mic on instinct, takes his place in front of the screen and lets the opening bars of music flow around the room like so much raw silk. He listens and he closes his eyes for just a moment as he raises the mic, takes a breath and begins to sing.

 

_“Treated me kind, sweet destiny, carried me through desperation, to the one that was waiting for me…”_

 

And as the song winds on, as each note falls as bright and clear as winter snowfall onto the assembled collection of holidaymakers, Patrick doesn’t know if he should be looking at Pete or at Gabe. He can sing this song and remember the good times, remember karaoke nights in LA where Gabe would grin at him from the table and tell him he was incredible. He can remember walks along Santa Monica pier with ice cream and arms wrapped around one another – awkward because of the height difference – Patrick would feel like a little kid as he trotted along with Gabe’s rangy strides. They had good times, dammit, why doesn’t Gabe care?

 

So instead, he watches Pete, watches the way his eyes glitter gold in the low light of the room, the way his lips curve into a sleepy sort of a smile, chin propped against the honey gold of his fist. He watches the way his head bobs in time with the slow beat and how the coloured lights twinkle on his – still hideous – sweater. He holds his gaze until the last note rings out clear and polite applause ripples the room. Except for Pete. Pete who jumps to his feet with two fingers jammed into his mouth as a piercing scream of a whistle soars over the room, as he whoops and stamps his feet and declares _that’s my boy!_

 

Patrick blushes and, disconcertingly, he isn’t sure if it’s mortification or a strange sort of embarrassed pride that colours him pink. He’s just not certain if he’d rather Pete conveniently disappeared or if he’d rather the _my boy,_ was genuine. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like it at all.

 

He likes it a little though as Pete puts on another bed-shaking performance for Gabe and Andy, as he jostles Patrick into a couple of half-hearted moans that he hopes burn Gabe raw from the inside. He even sort of likes it as Pete curls into his back again, leg slung over his own and nose to the nape of his neck. He kind of likes Pete’s stupid boxers, neon orange and emblazoned with Andy Warhol style Santas.

 

He likes all of it. And he’s not sure how to feel about that at all.

 

_~*~ Christmas Eve ~*~_

 

Christmas Eve doesn’t find Patrick brimmed with holiday cheer. It finds him hunched over his laptop at the kitchen counter, working through Brendon’s tracks in a manner that can only be adequately described as _pouty._ At least, that’s what Pete calls him as he slouches on the couch in his pajama pants - so he _does_ own some, they’re just not good enough for sleeping, apparently - and watches holiday specials back to back.

 

This, Patrick would like to point out, is _not_ how he envisaged his Christmas break unfolding when he’d booked the cabin back in the ninety-degree heat of an early LA summer. This isn’t how he imagined it when he decided to crash Gabe’s romantic break with Fun Sponge – sorry, sorry, _Andy_ – and it absolutely is not what he imagined when he decided to pay Pete to weave a spell of jealous allure around him. Because what’s happening, what’s _actually_ happening, is entirely predictable as Gabe spends his days out on the slopes and his nights in a twin bed with the person he _actually_ wants to be here with.

 

So, and this part isn’t entirely fair, Pete is now an irritant. He’s the spike of a pebble in Patrick’s shoe, reminding him with each step that he’s an idiot, a failure and possibly insane. Who _pays_ a random dude from a ski resort to parade as their paramour anyway? Patrick Stump, that’s who. Critically acclaimed music producer, vocalist and loser.

 

“The wind’s gonna change and you’ll stay like that,” Pete informs him, ever so helpfully, from the refrigerator where he scavenges slices of cheese like a trash panda.

 

“Maybe it’ll pick up and blow you the fuck away,” Patrick mutters under his breath, immediately feels mean because – come on – it’s not Pete’s fault. Not directly anyway. Okay _maybe_ he could be a slightly more adoring fake boyfriend and then _maybe_ Gabe might start taking this whole thing seriously. So, all right, maybe it is _sort of_ Pete’s fault.

 

Pete pouts and Patrick pointedly turns his laptop a little to block him out. Pete continues to stare, elbows propped on the counter, chin hooked to the top of the laptop until Patrick caves with a sigh.

 

“What do you want?” He sighs fit to gust them somewhere else. Maybe a place where Patrick has someone special and Gabe is the one looking in and doing ridiculous things for attention.

 

“Get dressed, we’re going out,” Pete declares with a smile so golden it melts the harder edges of Patrick’s icy irritation. As Patrick slips into a clean polo shirt and shrugs on a cardigan he wonders, not for the first time, what it is that makes Pete tolerate the shit he keeps tossing at him. Then his eye lands on his wallet on the nightstand – oh yes, of course. Five hundred dollars a day.

 

They walk in silence that should feel awkward but somehow doesn’t, their progress scored only by the crystal scrape of boots against compacting powder as they wind their way through the resort. It takes Patrick longer than it should to realise they’re heading for the ski lift as he shivers into his wholly inadequate coat. Pete pauses with a smile, unwinds the offensive Super Mario scarf from his neck and slings it around Patrick’s, tucking it neatly into his jacket as Patrick tries to avoid eye contact, glowing bright with each brush of gloved hands against his skin.

 

“So,” Pete begins once they’re sat on the lift, enjoying a picture-perfect view of sunset over the mountains, the sun sinking slow, burning orange and gold, washing the snow like blood. “Are you going to ask me?”

 

Patrick pauses, eyes on Pete’s gloved hand clutched like need to the edge of the bench. Patrick pauses and wonders what would happen if he just… reached… out… and…

 

No.

 

“No. I don’t need to know what you think of guys,” _or me_ , “I don’t need to know who you want to fuck,” _if you want to fuck me, I know you don’t_ , “I just need you to do what I’ve paid you to do.”

 

Pete’s all cast in burning light from the sunset, reflecting gold and amber and copper against eyes and skin that glow and shine with it, the light weaving bright highlights into the fluffy tufts of hair that poke out from under his hat. It adds sparkle to thick, silk-dark lashes as he bites his lip and takes in the view with an arm slung across the bench, almost like it’s wrapped around Patrick but it’s not. He stares and he smiles and he looks sad all at once and Patrick dies inside because this isn’t what he wants. Patrick sits in silence and stares at the view he wasn’t invited to watch – at the rather lovely way the stupid unicorn hat casts shadows across Pete’s face, at the plush tuck of his lip between his teeth. The lift trundles around slowly and deposits them safely back on the ground.

 

It’s Christmas Eve and Patrick is lonelier than he thinks he’s ever been. This can mean only one thing – it’s time to get wasted.

 

Patrick has no idea how many drinks he’s sunk, how many notes he’s handed to Will to line the register tucked discretely behind the bar. He knows it’s enough that he only feels a slight ache when he sees Gabe and Andy wrapped around one another at a corner table shrouded in shadow. He knows it’s enough that he’s starting to laugh at Pete’s crappy jokes. There’s music playing – not a live band, what kind of luxury resort _is_ this? – but the usual love songs and Christmas ditties, the dancefloor sparkling silver with starlight as couples sway and twirl together.

 

“Dance with me?” Pete asks, all innocent smile and cheekbones dusted pink with liquor although he seems sober. Patrick shakes his head. “Come on, don’t be such a killjoy, dance with me.”

 

Patrick doesn’t dance. He used to, he has reasonable rhythm and it used to be sort of fun swaying in time to a beat but Gabe told him he looked stupid so he stopped. It’s cooler to lounge by the bar anyway, whisky in hand and enigmatic smile on his lips. He thinks he sees Gabe shoot him a glance across the dancefloor, impossible to say for certain. Impossible to say if it’s jealousy or pity, remorse or dislike that flickers across eyes like bitter chocolate then the moment passes and he’s engrossed in Andy once again.

 

“Please?” Pete’s smiling sadly, as though he knows the answer, as though he’s anticipating the rejection before Patrick even opens his mouth.

 

“No,” Patrick shakes his head and wonders – just for a moment – what kind of turn the night might have taken if he’d said _yes._ If he didn’t hesitate, just for once. If he was a little less Patrick and a little more Pete. How would he have reacted if a lonely stranger had asked _him_ to step into the role of “boyfriend” for a time? He’d have thought they were insane. He’d have moved away as fast and as far as he could but Pete… Didn’t. And Patrick can’t work out _why_.

 

“Why are you trying to make that asshole jealous?” Pete asks around a mouthful of Malibu and coke. Patrick’s spluttering on whisky and ice as he flicks a glance from Gabe – all handsome, grinning, tall – to Pete – smiling, spoon cuddles warm in bed and scarves tucked soft around cold necks – and back again. It’s almost impossible to remember why he’s making Gabe jealous – or not, as the case may be – so he just stares helplessly at swirling amber in his glass so he doesn’t have to look at swirling amber framed by dark lashes. “Seriously, Patrick, you’re a _nice_ guy. I mean, you’re actually sort of a dick, but I get _why_ you act that way, you shouldn’t be doing this, dude, you can… You can do _better_.”

 

Okay, Patrick’s trying – he’s trying _really hard_ – not to give in to the sting of tears that burn behind his eyes. He blinks – slow and soft – slips off his glasses and buffs them against the cuff of his cardigan, replaces them with care and answers with a shrug, “Clearly not.”

 

“Okay, all right,” Pete’s moving with madness and animation, hands expansive waves that encompass the room. “That stuff you were messing around with earlier? You’re, like, _crazy_ talented. And- and… you’re pretty cute, man, I mean, you know that, right?”

 

Patricks snorts with derision and Pete burns bright with passion, with a purpose, with a sharp belief that he’s _right_ even if what he’s saying is ridiculous and fuelled by alcohol, “Ask me. Go ahead, I _dare_ you. Ask me.”

 

Ask me _._ _Pete, are you attracted to guys?_ Ask me _._ _Pete, are you attracted to me?_ Ask me _._ _Pete, can this be real?_ Ask me.

 

_Ask me._

 

_Ask. Me._

 

_Just…_

 

_Ask._

 

“No,” Patrick’s as sour as the whisky, as heated as the alcohol that burns on his bloodstream. He won’t humiliate himself any further than he has already, won’t give Pete any further excuses to laugh at him because – God knows – he’s given away enough already. This seemed like such a great idea with that weird tightening in his stomach out on the slopes, with twinkling eyes and a toothsome grin that shone like they were just for him. “It’s none of my business.”

 

Somehow – and don’t ask Patrick how it happens, please don’t – there’s an arm braced either side of him, coloured gold and painted black and grey and red and green and a dozen other shades. There’s the flush of lips very close to Patrick’s, close enough that they share breaths that taste of whisky – _Patrick’s_ – and rum – _Pete’s,_ of uncertainty – _Patrick’s_ – and something else, something dangerous as darkness – _Pete’s._

 

“He’s looking,” Pete whispers like a promise, eyes over Patrick’s shoulder and across a cavernous stretch of a dancefloor. “He’s looking and he sees us and you should kiss me.”

 

“Pete, I…” _I want to, so help me I want to._ “We can’t. I just…” _I paid you, this isn’t right._ “No…”

 

No. _Nononono._ Patrick braces back, though he wants nothing more than to press in, to tangle himself in those arms and find himself lost in Pete but he won’t be made to look a fool. Hands find the solid press of a lean, muscled chest and he shoves. He shoves hard. He shoves with enough force to knock half-drunk Pete off balance against the table behind them and, in the clatter of glasses and apologies and dark eyes that burn into him from across the dancefloor, Patrick _runs._

 

He stumble-stagger-trips his way across the bar, grabbing his coat and, before he has the chance to drag it on, he’s plunging into the frigid air like lake water. He gasps and gulps in the cold of it, let’s it freeze in his lungs as he shivers his way down the sidewalk and towards the cabin. If he was brave he’d just walk into the woods and never emerge. Just… Live there with the bears like Mowgli. It might be quite nice, in the summer at least.

 

But he’s not brave, he’s a coward, so he hurries and skids and slips in the cold dark and reminds himself that there are very few people – statistically speaking – who get murdered at high end ski resorts in Utah. The cabin, when he falls through the door in the flurry of snow and frozen air and hands burnt raw by the cold where he didn’t bother to yank on his gloves, is warm and inviting. The tree – decorated by someone else before he arrived, another falsehood on this whole farce of a trip – glows softly in the darkness and Patrick wants to go home. He wants his mom to stroke his hair and tell him it’s all going to be okay. He wants his nephews and nieces to bury him in hugs and demands for their gifts. He wants…

 

To go to bed.

 

He climbs the stairs like it hurts, like he’s aged fifty years, like each step is a mountain but not the one he remembers from a ski lift and a gloved hand against a bench seat begging to be grasped. He showers, dresses in his warmest pajamas, brushes his teeth. He plugs in his phone and slides into the bed he didn’t realise was quite so big without Pete there to share it. He hauls the covers up to his chin, closes his eyes and wills consciousness to slip away.

 

He’s still awake as the clock tips past midnight and into Christmas Day.

 

He’s still awake when Pete, quiet and chilled, slips into the bed and lies, back turned, as far from Patrick as he can physically get.

 

He’s still awake.

 

Still awake.

 

Awake.

 

_~*~ Christmas Day ~*~_

 

It takes Patrick a few seconds to realise Pete isn’t wound around him like a tangle of thorns as sunlight filters through the shutters and dances demented against his eyelids. It takes a few seconds more to remember _why_ , to feel the solid kick of regret square in the chest. He should’ve just kissed him. People like Pete don’t kiss people like Patrick, they just _don’t_. They kiss handsome guys like Gabe or buff guys like Andy or sweet, charming guys like Joe. If they kiss guys at all. They don’t kiss grouchy little cardigan-clad dudes with bad hair and worse eyesight.

 

Patrick is ready to acknowledge the truth; that he’s nothing more than a joke wrapped up in an overstuffed wallet. Why wouldn’t Pete agree to take his cash and make fun of him behind his back, he wonders as he struggles to sit. Why wouldn’t Pete take pleasure in parading around in shorts and nothing more, all that gleaming gold on display wound with endless trails of ink. Why would Pete… Be sitting at the edge of the bed with an apologetic smile and a badly wrapped gift on the mattress between them.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he greets Patrick softly, hair a mess of curls like clouds, sleep caught in copper eyes and ground away with the heel of a tawny hand. “I got you a little something.”

 

Patrick’s eyes bounce between the gift and Pete and back again. There’s embarrassment winding a hand around his lungs and squeezing his breath to a rasp as he shakes his head and shrugs out an answer, “I- I’m sorry,” _for everything,_ “I didn’t get you anything.”

 

“You didn’t need to,” Pete sighs like a monologue, words caught in his breath that Patrick can’t translate, whole novels of thoughts twisted in dark brows pulled down into a frown and the thin set of his lips that seem to say he’s disappointed Patrick would think it had to be reciprocal.

 

Patrick touches the paper cautiously, feels it rustle over something soft, something light as he tugs it into his lap. It’s the only gift he’ll get so he might as well enjoy it, peels the gift wrap back cautiously and, eyes wide, hiccups a gasp of surprise and delight. It’s a scarf, the softest he’s ever held – merino maybe? – checked broad and neat with sweeps and lines of grey and black and cream. It’s understated, warm and, when he raises it to his cheek, it smells faintly of Pete, like warm skin and some kind of teenage boy body spray.

 

“Thanks,” he squeezes Pete’s hand against the comforter and tries not to die a little inside when Pete squeezes back. “It’s really nice.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Pete’s all bluster and – disconcertingly – the bloom of a blush high across his cheekbones. “You didn’t have one and it’s really goddamn cold out here so I… I just thought you could use one.”

 

“Thanks,” he repeats in the split second before he allows himself to meet the glow of eyes like wildfire and hushed promises. Eyes that, for the briefest of moments, steal the air from his lungs and the sense from his head and he’s leaning closer, closer, almost close enough to –

 

The thump of dislodged snow from a pine tree outside landing against the cabin roof has him scrabbling startled, all anxious heels and squirming hips as he jitters back to the edge of the bed, back to somewhere safe. Somewhere he can pause to mutter half-formed excuses about brushing his teeth and calling his mom. There’s something on Pete’s face like disappointment something in his eyes that laments a missed opportunity but Patrick won’t dwell on it. No, he bustles around the room and into the bathroom with a wall of inane chatter and it’s not until he pulls the bathroom door closed behind him that he lets himself breathe. It’s not until the shower is cascading down and the steam and silence wrap around him like wings that he lets himself cry because this isn’t the Christmas he wanted.

 

He’d really rather go home.

 

They pass the day like a waltz, sidestepping and avoiding, twirling around one another maddeningly. But as night draws a veil over the mountainside everything eases. As darkness falls like dim velvet he can turn to Pete, a whole couch cushion away from him, and suggest they start getting ready for dinner. He leaves Pete in the bedroom with his bag and a puzzled frown as he slips into the bathroom with his suit bag. Is a three piece too formal for Christmas dinner halfway up a mountain?

 

He leaves the bathroom still sliding his cufflinks into place, eyes down and focussed sharp but he hears Pete’s hitch of a breath. He almost misses the way golden eyes widen as they rake over him, but not quite, catches just the end of a glance that burns like fever dreams. It’s gone in a heartbeat, amber eyes dulling dark as he yanks irritably at his collar and snarls something about looking ridiculous next to Patrick.

 

Patrick thinks Pete looks pretty good, actually, in black jeans and a grey shirt, hair styled into compliance but he pauses thoughtfully, slips off his tie and hands it to Pete with a smile and a murmur of, “Merry Christmas.”

 

The cabin rings empty; Gabe and Fun Sponge – oh, stop it, he’ll call him that if he wants – seem to have left already. There’s something sharp in the air, something that’s warm like a promise but just the tiniest bit frightening. Something that makes Patrick want to suggest they just stay here, just go back to the bedroom with its soft sheets and magnificent four poster; just lose themselves in one another for the night.

 

Just be.

       

A soft little voice calls from his edges. The voice that asks him how much he supposes that might cost him. The voice is the reason he shrugs on his coat instead, the reason he watches Pete do the same in silence. But the scarf feels as warm as a lover's touch as they wind their way along the tracks and sidewalks to the main lodge. The place he stumbled from, drunk and fearful, just a sunrise and a sunset ago that feels like a yawning lifetime. The place painted with the magic of holiday cheer from the moment they step inside, glasses of mulled wine pressed into cold hands to thaw chilled bodies and leave them warm and glowing. Pete's nose is tipped with pink above his glass, eyes a merry burn as they crease in a grin and his hand rises in a toast.

 

“To new beginnings,” Pete suggests, all hope and sparkle that only dulls a little when Patrick replies after a short pause.

 

“Or rekindling old flames,” he replies with a glance in Gabe's direction. Funny, he can't say it with much conviction any more. Strange, he almost feels as though he's more comfortable with Pete.

 

Odd.

 

They sit for dinner, seated at a table dressed in linen as white and crisp and even as the snow that blankets the mountainside. Candles glow between them in perfect complement to the low, ambient lighting that's just bright enough to stop the waiting staff from falling on their faces and catch the gleam of the place settings, the wine glasses, the points of caramel colour that sparkle in Pete's eyes. They laugh together, the awkwardness of the night before apparently forgotten, Patrick doesn't even think to flinch when Pete's hand covers his between the main course and dessert.

 

_Ask me._

 

He doesn't even glance in Gabe's direction when Pete offers him a spoonful of his croquembouche, just a smile he's sure must rival the lights on the tree when Pete leans close and gently wipes a smudge of cream from the corner of his mouth with a teasing fingertip.

 

_Ask me._

 

Look, Patrick’s not falling for Pete, okay? Patrick hasn’t become so wound up in this whole ridiculous charade that he can’t see the nursery slope for the pine trees, alright? Patrick is categorically _not_ imagining other scenarios in which Pete’s fingers might run over his lips.

 

Okay, so what if Pete is kind of handsome in his shirt and tie? And who the hell really cares if the way he smiles makes Patrick’s chest hurt just a little because it’s all for show, all make believe and play pretend.

 

And what is anyone going to do about it if Patrick spent most of the night before praying hoping wishing for the press of Pete’s chest to his back? If he craved the brush of a nose against the nape of his neck – it’s kind of nice being snuggled by someone roughly the same height as him – or arms like an artwork of terrible decisions wound around his waist, then what’s the problem? It hits him then, like a bolt from the blue, like a lightning strike, like an epiphany or any other way you want to phrase it; he _wants_ Pete. He wants him with an intensity that takes his breath away. He wants those eyes like honey to blink at him from the pillow every morning, he wants to know the kind of pizza Pete likes best, which stupid sports team he follows, he wants to know the sound Pete makes when someone, some _Patrick_ , presses kisses to his throat. He wants, he wants, he _wants_ …

 

“Dance with me?” Pete implores and Patrick jolts with a _“hmm?”_ that he hopes covers the hunger he’s sure must shine from him like sunlight. There’s _still_ no band – seriously, what the fuck is up with _that_ – but the dance floor is glittering with a thousand points of mirror bright light that shine diamonds in eyes like topaz. It offers highlights and shadows to a face that’s all pretty angles and gentle slopes that Patrick’s fingers itch to trace.

 

“Come on, dude,” Pete begs with wide eyes as the opening strains of _All I Want for Christmas Is You_ twinkle over the sound system. He’s _trying_ and, God knows, Patrick doesn’t deserve it right now. “One dance, I fucking love this one, it’s… it’s my jam.”

 

Patrick hesitates for a moment, the fear of stepping out onto the dancefloor – of people _seeing_ him, laughing at him – leaving him breathing ice. He glimpses Gabe, winding long arms around Andy at the fringes and squares his shoulders, takes Pete’s offered hand with his best brave smile and, with a murmur of, “What the hell,” he steps out onto the floor. It’s been a Mariah sort of week.

 

It’s not the easiest song to dance to, but their hips sway in time, bodies pressed close as Patrick drops his head onto Pete’s shoulder. Everything is spinning nicely, in that hazy sort of drunk way where thinking about Gabe only tears a small hole in his chest rather than a ragged, gaping wound. Pete smells nice, he decides, all skin and cologne and the faintest note of malt from his beer. He feels almost lazily decadent when fingers slide under his chin, when his mouth is tilted up at the angle that makes him pout expectantly, that makes him glow and tingle in anticipation.

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick thinks he could be dreaming as warm lips rest flush against his for just a moment, just a brief _is this okay_ that Patrick answers with a desperate little kind of a moan. It’s butter soft and smooth as cream, tinged with the taste of chocolate and caramel laced with beer and Pete.

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick thinks he could be imploding, folding in on himself as the universe expands around him. There’s a hand wound into his hair and holding him close, another at his hip that slowly, gently finds its way under his shirt to feather fingertips against the small of his back. There are nails that trace a pattern like a melody into his skin, that conduct a whole orchestra of nerve endings to play a concerto that screams to a crescendo with the blood that rushes against his ears.

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick thinks he might be dying as Pete plays the tip of a tongue like velvet against the seam of his lips. He’s greedy and grasping as he opens his mouth, as he grabs at Pete’s hair and hauls him close – as close as he can drag him – like he’s merging atoms and binding their beings because if he lets go… _if he lets go_ …

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick thinks he might be falling apart because it’s not quite real though it feels as though it is. It’s not exactly what he wants, although it’s everything he imagined. It’s not. But it is. At least, it _might_ be. It _could_ be.

 

Maybe.

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick walks home with a grin on lips that still taste of Pete, with an arm slung over his shoulder and a shine on his cheeks he can’t blame entirely on alcohol.

 

The first time Pete kisses him, Patrick realises he didn’t even check to see if Gabe was watching.

 

_~*~ December 26th ~*~_

 

They don’t talk about the kiss.

 

They talk about lots of things as the magic and shine of Christmas retreats just a little from the cabin on the mountainside. They talk about music – Pete’s taste is _terrible_ – they talk about movies and TV shows and who they think is going to die next on Game Of Thrones – Pete is _wrong_ , it absolutely will _not_ be Joffrey. But they don’t talk about the kiss and Patrick’s more disappointed about that than he has any right to be.

 

It doesn’t make sense.

 

The sense of familiarity of Pete’s bedhead in his lap as they stare mindlessly at reruns of _I Love Lucy_ shouldn’t feel like coming home. It shouldn’t feel safe and warm to card his fingers through the unruly mess of Pete’s un-styled hair as they share a bottle of champagne – the one he’d asked the resort staff to put in the refrigerator back when he thought he was coming here with Gabe. He shouldn’t be looking forward to the hour he can glance at the clock and suggest they head to bed because Pete is always freezing and uses Patrick as his personal storage heater. Seriously, who gets work in a ski resort when their feet are permanently like blocks of goddamn ice?

 

Patrick quite likes feeling them slide between his calves, though. Particularly when they’re accompanied by strong arms around his waist and the press of lips to the back of his neck. Yeah, that’s pretty good, actually.

 

If he’d thought something might happen after their dance floor kiss, he’s trying to pretend he’s not disappointed. They’d barrelled into the cabin in a flurry of snow and perishing cold air, stamping feet and blowing into cupped hands in an attempt to coax back warmth to chilled-pale skin. There was a moment when they both headed for the stairs at the same time, when Patrick’s heart soared a little whilst his stomach plummeted with nervous energy and he wondered, breathless, if this was it. Until Pete stood to the side with a flourished bow and a declaration of _“if that didn’t make him jealous, nothing will,”_ and Patrick struggled to stop his face from falling a little. He kept it hidden in a rush for the bedroom, in changing into cosy pajamas and curling under the covers.

 

So, when Pete joined him with mugs of cocoa and the remote for the TV on the wall, he hadn’t hesitated to lean against the offered shoulder, hadn’t objected when an arm slipped around him and drew him a little closer with a murmured _“keep me warm”_ – although Patrick might have _privately_ thought some sweatpants and a t-shirt would do an equally decent job of warming him through.

 

Pete acts like his boyfriend, but he isn’t. Why continue to pretend when the doors are closed and it’s just the two of them? Why press in close, stroke a hand over Patrick’s cheek, sling an arm around his waist and brush his lips against his neck? Why kiss him like he meant it on a crowded dancefloor?

 

Patrick drags the confusion under the surface, shoves it away to examine once he’s home and safe in LA, once he can truly start to pick up his life and move on to whatever Life After Gabe may bring. For now, he has a few questions for his board bum, sprawled out on the couch in Patrick’s pajama pants and a faded Batman shirt.

 

“What do you do in the summer? Surfing?” He asks casually, playing a fingertip over a deliciously soft patch of hair just behind Pete’s ear.

 

“Sometimes,” Pete nods and stretches, wiggles his toes against the couch. “Surf instructor, holiday camp work, anything that pays and comes with somewhere to sleep tossed in.”

 

“Isn’t that…” _Deep breath, Patrick_. “You seem way too smart for that. And, I mean, I’m not saying smart people don’t… don’t do your job it’s just… Poli-Sci?”

 

There’s quiet from both of them and a half smile from Pete, eyes soft and hand lazy as it reaches for Patrick’s and – very much against his better judgement, thank you very much – Patrick doesn’t object, sits still and lets Pete trace slow patterns across his palm. What can he see in the lines and creases of skin and heat? Because at this stage, nothing would surprise Patrick about Pete, not to find out he was a palm reader or an acrobat or a goddamn travelling insurance salesman.

 

“It’s not that I _can’t_ do anything else,” Pete begins with a sigh. “Like, everyone thinks I’m just this loser skipping around from crappy job to crappy job but… I have a _dream_ , man, you know?”

 

“You can tell me,” Patrick shrugs and takes another mouthful of his drink. The bubbles slip against his tongue and, as Pete’s shirt rides up a little, he almost chokes on the thought of pouring it into the delicious hollow of Pete’s stomach, lapping it up slowly before moving lower… lower… Fuck, he hasn’t done something that decadent since he went through the ridiculous bowties and bottle blonde phase. Champagne-damp sheets and post-ceremony parties.

 

“Okay, well…” Pete trails off for a moment before wriggling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through. “So, I’ve been working on this clothing label for a couple years and, here, look…” He holds out the phone shyly, the blush already staining his cheeks. “I know, it’s kinda dumb but that’s the dream. I just need to get someone important to _wear_ some of it, you know?”

 

Patrick flicks through the pictures with interest, it’s all hoodies and t-shirts and absolutely the kind of thing some of his artists would wear. It’s cute and fun in bold colours, emblazoned with a design he’s sure he’s seen before. He reaches down absently, brushes a hand to Pete’s stomach and slides up the hem of his shirt – almost missing the way Pete’s eyes darken for a moment – revealing skin and ink and, yes, the same design etched out between his hipbones.

 

“Well, you know,” Pete smiles all sheepish and soft. “I figured maybe a bad college decision could come good. It’s cool though, the fabrics are all organic, everything is fair trade and ethical and just… I _believe_ in this, you know? I just need to get together the capital to draw in a decent investor and then… Well. Then hopefully it all works out. So, that’s why I do what I do. I don’t have to pay rent, I get free food most of the time and I never go out, never do anything, I just… save it all, every cent I can. To promote the label, you know?”

 

Patrick could help. Patrick could offer in a single sentence to get Pete’s hoodies and tees in front of cameras all over the world. He could have them on MTV and in Rolling Stone with nothing more than a couple of phone calls to the right people. They’re cute and the ethics are fantastic, it’s _so_ marketable it’s almost unreal. But… He holds back. Because if he tells Pete who he is right now, if he reveals that part of himself that he’s held back because Pete hasn’t asked and Patrick would feel like an asshole telling him, then maybe – if there _is_ something growing between them – he’ll never know if it’s genuine, never know if it’s real. So, Patrick smiles vaguely and strokes Pete’s hair once more, hands back Pete’s phone and accepts the offer to shuffle around on the couch, to spoon into Pete’s warm back and drag a soft blanket over them from the cushions behind.

 

Later, when they head to bed ahead of Andy and Gabe, he pauses for only a moment as Pete launches into his nightly display of caricatured carnality before joining in, bouncing against the mattress hard enough to rattle the headboard. And, when Pete begins his silly soundtrack, Patrick joins in, moaning and gasping and declaring Pete to be the best he’s ever had until they’re both breathless with giggles. Something feels different about the way Pete curls into his side, head against his shoulder and arm draped over his chest but he doesn’t question it. No, he just drops a kiss onto the top of Pete’s dark head and murmurs a soft goodnight into the darkness.

 

Pete, it seems – breathing slow and deep – is already asleep.

 

_~*~ December 28th ~*~_

 

Patrick has had an idea.

 

Admittedly, he’s not sure it’s a brilliant idea. He’s not even sure if it’s a not-incredibly-stupid-idea although he’s pretty certain it falls into the Top 10 of Patrick Stump’s Dumbest Moments right above the sideburns but below paying a stranger to be his boyfriend. Maybe a 7.

 

But, the thing is, now he’s _had_ the idea, he can’t shift it. Because in his head it sounds sort of fun and cute and like something that might result in a magical moment against the backdrop of snow and pine trees and that glowing orb of a sun that hangs low in the winter sky washed pale with streaks of milk-white clouds.

 

The romanticising means it’s almost definitely more like a 9.

 

“Teach me to snowboard?” He asks, all in a breathless rush as they sit at the breakfast nook eating plump, warm croissants from the bakery in town. Patrick eats his with slivers of cheese baked into the centre until it bubbles and crisps but Pete – ah, Pete – he loads his with butter and jam and thick dollops of cream that catch on his lips, chasing crumbs with the tip of his pink tongue as he considers Patrick carefully.

 

“I thought snowboarding was – and I think I’m quoting you directly here – _ridiculous,”_ Pete grins around a mouthful of pastry and Patrick should find it disgusting, shouldn’t feel a flip-flop of his stomach. “I thought _I_ was ridiculous?”

 

“It is and you are,” Patrick takes a nonchalant nibble of his croissant, a sip of his coffee as he considers the best way to phrase it. “But, technically, I’m still paying you for private tuition and it seems like I should make some use of that. Who knows? Maybe I’m a natural talent.”

 

“You’re not,” Pete assures him with a vehement shake of his head. “You fucking suck. But,” he trails off thoughtfully, “Maybe I can make you suck less.”

 

There’s a dirty joke hiding in there somewhere but Patrick won’t be the one to make it, instead he smiles and finishes his breakfast and slips his plate into the dishwasher. It’ll be fun, he assures himself, it’ll be a relaxing way to spend the day and, when he goes back home, he’ll be able to tell everyone at work that no, he absolutely _did not_ spend the whole time hiding in the cabin and glaring at Gabe. Let Joe shove that right up his ass.

 

He’s sure it’s totally normal to prickle with nervous sweat as he slips into his skiing pants and jacket like he’s Pavlov’s dog. And it’s probably completely reasonable to feel his heart drift into ‘cardiac arrest’ sort of territory as he tugs on his boots and gloves. Maybe it’s a little calming to smell Pete’s scent as he winds the new scarf around his neck, that smell of Pete’s shirts still clinging to its soft length tucked snug against his throat like tender kisses or the brush of a warm hand. He’s not even going to pretend he isn’t crushing on Pete anymore, it seems unfair to his already fragile sense of self-esteem.

 

They trudge to the slopes in easy silence, hands that aren’t clutching boards tucked into pockets although Patrick would prefer to lace them together. He enjoys the daydream of a morning spent laughing in the snow then lunch at one of the little bistros along the main street, of heading back to the cabin in the late afternoon dimness to roll together, damp and needing, in front of the fire. That’s good, right? That his fantasies have moved away from the safety of a bed? He’s not boring!

 

He doesn’t complain when Pete helps him secure his boots to his criminally expensive board, the one Gabe picked out for him back in the fall. He doesn’t huff when Pete holds him steady as he wobbles at the top of the slope, just leans in to the contact for a moment or two and thinks about kissing the lips barely visible between a lurid scarf and goggles that reflect back a face that shines with need and hope. Pete just grins, that bright, easy smile and mutters softly, “I’ve got you.”

 

He certainly does.

 

The first time they stand at the top of the slope, as Pete talks him through his form and technique, Patrick pretends he’s listening while he really just stares at Pete’s mouth. How hard can it be? There are grade school kids zooming past like they’re rocket-powered. If a kid that hasn’t mastered long division can do this, surely a grown man in his late twenties won’t struggle at all. He ignores the nagging voice that points out that he can’t do long division either.

 

“You ready?” Pete asks, concerned. “Remember-”

 

“Relax my knees, yeah, got it,” Patrick waves a hand airily. He’s _got_ this.

 

He bends his knees a little as Pete gives him a gentle shove, tries to hold his posture in exactly the way Pete showed him, the board sliding slowly down the slope and he’s doing it! He’s actually snowboarding like an actual person on a snowboarding trip! It’s _easy!_ It’s…. To be honest, the board is gaining speed at quite a frightening rate and the kids hurtling past seem to get _way_ too close… He lets out a strangled yelp, twists against his straps and, with a particularly undignified scream, he hurtles through the air to crash, winded and with bruises to his ass and his pride, in a small snowdrift.

 

“Dude!” Pete skids to the kind of smooth, effortless halt that makes Patrick want to punch him in the face. “Are you okay? Does everything work? Is anything broken?”

 

“No,” Patrick croaks whilst thinking, privately, _just my self-esteem_ as a particularly bratty grade-schooler skids past with a grin on his face and wit on his lips.

 

“Great technique, dipshit!”

 

“You’re like, _seven_ , asshole!” Patrick bellows after him, blush fire-bright on his cheeks. “You don’t know shit about shit!”

 

“Okay, let’s get you up on your feet,” Pete hauls him upright and dusts him down before setting off towards the bigger slopes with purpose. Patrick struggles to grab his board before hurrying after with fumbling feet and gently panting breaths.

 

“You think I’m ready to move to the big slopes already?” He asks, a little curl of pride in his gut. Okay, so he bailed but maybe he’s better than he thought. Maybe-

 

“No, not even a little…” _Fucking rude,_ Patrick thinks, “But that kid is telling his dad about you,” Pete points to the furious looking mountain of a man with the tattletale asshole of a kid pointing directly at them. “And he looks fucking terrifying _so…_ Big slopes it is.”

 

That sounds like an excellent idea to Patrick who finds a speed his legs didn’t know they were capable of as they power along to the ski lift. He’s still glancing warily over his shoulder as they climb through the frigid air, their breath clouding and cheeks flushing pink. He’s pretty sure they’re not being followed. Almost certain. Close to positive.

 

The slope is high and Pete looks concerned as he – once again – talks Patrick through correct form and style. Patrick can feel his eyes glazing with how little he cares although there’s a lot of dangerous looking snow between him and the bottom of the slope. It’ll be fine. He’s sure. Pete seems to sense that his student isn’t perhaps the most responsive and, with a sigh of _“fuck it,”_ grabs a handful of Patrick’s coat and – with something approaching abandon – hurls them both down at the mercy of frozen water and gravity.

 

This time, Patrick stops trying to be perfect. This time, Patrick listens to Pete’s gentle requests to relax his knees or straighten his back. This time, Patrick doesn’t pout petulantly when Pete keeps a tight fist wound into the back of his coat. This time, Patrick actually makes it from the top of the slope to the bottom, slow, unsteady and wobbling like a baby gazelle but he thinks that might be an upgrade from terrified koala. He’s beaming with a glow of pride he can see shining from Pete as he gathers him into a hug and drags him off balance. They’re laughing like losers as they crash to the floor together with a matching pair of winded grunts as they tangle in the snow and glitter golden with giggles. Patrick gasps out his _thank yous_ while Pete replies with his _you did so wells_ and _I knew you could do its._

 

If it occurs to Pete, braced as he is over Patrick’s body, his weight on his hands as he grins down like every happy memory Patrick’s ever had, that their mouths are close enough to brush softly, then he does an excellent job of hiding it. If he thinks for a moment about dipping his head, about sealing their mouths the way they did on the dance floor then it doesn’t flicker in eyes like warm honey as he shines a smile like moonlight. Patrick can feel snow melting into his hair and it’s a little uncomfortable so he struggles to sit, grins back at the slope they just conquered with something that he thinks might be pride glowing warm in his chest.

 

He’s so engrossed in Pete, so caught up in the achievement, that he doesn’t notice a pair of jealous dark eyes that burn with fury from behind tinted goggles. He doesn’t see the way lips tighten into a frown as they take in the pair of them, tangled and giggling in the snow. It passes him by entirely as Gabe huffs a curse into his scarf. He’s far too caught up in Pete.

 

_~*~ December 30th ~*~_

The downside to having the rug yanked out from under your feet is that no one warns you they’re about to do it. One moment everything is absolutely as it should be and you’re on top of the world, the next you’re on your ass and wondering what the hell just happened. Which is exactly how it goes down for Patrick, the day before New Year’s Eve as he hangs out in the cabin with Pete.

 

The fire is roaring cheerfully in the fireplace, the Christmas tree is starting to wilt and droop slightly, the needles browning and drying in the snug warmth. Patrick sits in an armchair, the guitar Pete found buried in his luggage slung across his lap. He doesn’t even know why he brought the guitar, it was almost an instinct to reach for it as he left his house, as natural as grabbing wallet, keys and glasses. Pete’s eyes had sparkled when he noticed it, glowing like molten caramel as the light outside dimmed to silver with fat snowflakes that twisted and twirled their way down from a sky that hung like pearls above the mountain. An hour or so later and the snow shows no signs of letting up so they’ve surrendered to it, sipping mugs of cocoa as Pete calls out requests and Patrick does his best to fulfil them or at least wing it with some approximation of the song Pete wants.

 

“You’re really good,” Pete observes, all fluffy bedhead and shining eyes. “Like, insanely good. You could be a professional or, like, a music teacher or something. You ever thought about doing something with music?”

 

Patrick hesitates. Patrick _almost_ tells him. The words gather at the back of his throat, ready and waiting to make their way forward and over his lips, the flow of conversation where he explains what he does and who he knows and how he can help Pete establish his business. But they don’t make it, they wither and die on his tongue in a stammer of broken syllables and flushed cheeks and a pathetic little rasp of a squeak, “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess.”

 

He plays a few more, a couple of David Bowie numbers, some Prince, a little Tom Waites and then Pete is making grabby hands at the guitar – his precious baby – and asking for a turn. Patrick hesitates, this guitar is his pride a joy; the Gretsch he bought as a treat the first time a song he’d produced had gone gold. He’s seen how Pete handles every other object that passes through his hands, rough, impatient, yanking, pulling, breaking and _why_ does he want to sleep with him? He likes his dick, he’s not sure putting it into those hands is entirely wise. He’s getting distracted, gives his head a metaphorical shake and, cautiously hands over the guitar.

 

“I used to play a little when I was kid,” Pete frowns down at the strings as he brushes a hand over them carefully, as though Patrick would hand it over in any state but perfectly in tune. “Mostly bass but I think I still remember a little guitar…”

 

He’s choppy and hesitant, hits the wrong notes almost as often as he hits the right ones as he begins to play a song Patrick recognises even through the mistakes. _Heroes_. One of his favourites. It might be the most terrible rendition Patrick’s ever heard. It might be out of time and as flat as Lake Michigan on a calm day but there’s a breath-taking sort of _peace_ about Pete’s face as he frowns down at the strings. Pete isn’t peaceful, even when he sleeps he’s active, wriggling and mumbling and shuffling closer into the warmth of Patrick’s back, his serenity is as unexpected as it is beautiful.

 

“I mean, I’m not as good as _you,”_ he blusters, the kind of blush painting his cheeks that appears so much more regularly on Patrick. It’s more endearing than it has any right to be, he has to wind his hands into the cuffs of his cardigan so he won’t touch, won’t give in to the urge to slide a hand into Pete’s messy hair and draw him in for a kiss. “I played in a couple of bands when I was younger, never went anywhere though, it always felt like something was missing, you know?”

 

Patrick knows, nods sadly, he had his own bands through high school and college, the usual mix of kids. Maybe a couple of times he even had a shot at the big time but something always felt off, like he hadn’t found quite the right balance of bodies on the stage, like there was something missing from the music they made, some intangible property he couldn’t quite explain. Pete breaks the spell by beginning to hammer Smells Like Teen Spirit into the frets, voice loud and tuneless as he starts to sing and Patrick is laughing, breathless and _happy_ as he joins in for the chorus. This could be the most fun he’s had in years.

 

“Would the two of you shut the _fuck_ up?” Patrick jumps, startled, as Gabe emerges from the downstairs bedroom. It should be a sight that stirs something in Patrick, Gabe’s chest bare and pajama pants low on slim hips, a soft trail of dark hair winding south under cotton. It should fire an urge in Patrick’s gut, he’s sure, to see the fuck-rumpled mess of Gabe’s hair, the way his lips are swollen and his face flushed with sleep or some other bedroom-centred activity. It should, but it doesn’t, he’s just sort of irritated that he and Pete were interrupted.

 

“Can I help you, Gabriel?” Patrick snaps, knees drawn up to his chest as he scowls his annoyance at his ex-boyfriend.

 

“I was actually rushing out here to make sure you hadn’t had a stroke,” Gabe snarls and for a moment, Patrick is confused. Just a moment, until he swivels to point at Pete with the disdain usually reserved for door to door religious types. “Then I realised it was this fucking assclown fucking around with a guitar.”

 

“Hey, that’s unkind,” Pete objects lazily, beginning to strum Happy Birthday. _“Gabe’s an asshole it’s true, and his boyfriend is too…”_

 

“You know what, Patrick? I’ve tried, really I have,” Gabe makes a big show of putting on his most patient face. “You think it’s funny to bring a fucking glorified hooker along on my vacation – ”

 

“Excuse me, _your_ vacation?” Patrick interrupts. “Remind me who paid for this?”

 

“Oh, okay, I get it, we’re playing that game, are we?” Gabe growls, fired with fury. “You know, you think you’re such a fucking hotshot with your studio and your awards all lit up with _other people’s_ names.”

 

“Hey,” Pete interrupts sharply, guitar shoved to the side and forgotten. “Back off, asshole, leave him alone.”

 

“Stay out of it,” Gabe snaps, barely sparing Pete a glance as he rounds on Patrick once more. “Fucking _producer_ , that’s like… It’s like being a fucking _teacher_. Those that can, do, those that can’t make their own goddamn music successful have to work for those with actual _talent._ Face it, Patrick, you’re just a fucking four track player with eyes.”

 

That stings. Patrick can feel tears burning sharp and hot, can feel the soft quiver of his lower lip as the man he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with scowls down at him like he can’t stand him. There’s reality again, insisting on rearing its ugly head just when Patrick needs it the least. Still, he won’t take that lying down – even if he suspects it might be true – he needs to fight back, needs to say _something_ to prove Gabe doesn’t win.

 

“Go to hell, Gabe,” _yeah, Patrick, that sure showed him_. “Just… leave me alone.”

 

“Leave you alone?” Gabe sneers, bitter and twisted and ugly. “You followed me here, you were the one that wouldn’t leave _me_ alone. You want to know _why_ I stopped fucking you six months ago and started fucking Andy instead?” Patrick shakes his head weakly, unsure if it’s more humiliating to hear the bitter truth from Gabe’s lips or knowing that Pete can hear it too, “Because you’re fucking _boring_ , in and out of bed, dull, tedious, _monotonous_ Patrick. Fuck, you’re the only guy I’ve been with that could send me to sleep with a blowjob, I swear to God – ”

 

“I said leave him the fuck alone, asshole,” Pete is on his feet, squaring up to Gabe like there isn’t a height difference of ten inches.

 

“Whatever, fuckstick,” Gabe laughs but there’s no mirth there, Patrick can barely see around a blur of tears, can barely breathe around the hot rock lodged somewhere in his windpipe. “You’re only here for his cash anyway, that’s the only reason anyone would stick around.”

 

“Fuck you,” Pete looks like he’s thinking about taking a swing, fists coiled sharp at his sides and chin raised, half an aggressive step forward that Gabe mirrors with the kind of cocky smile of a man who knows his advantage. “Oh, you think I’m _afraid_ of you, motherfucker? Fucking try me, I _dare_ you, fucking son of a bitch…”

 

“You think I’m scared of your fucking attack chihuahua?” Gabe laughs over Pete’s shoulder and straight at Patrick, the precision of the gesture unerring. “Call him off, Pat, call him off and fuck off back to LA.”

 

“Patrick is a decent guy,” Pete snarls through teeth clenched tight, another menacing step forward across the living room. “He’s worth a dozen of you. I don’t know much about what happened between the two of you, but I know you’re a fucking fool to let him go. But you don’t look like a thinker, so…”

 

Patrick falters. He stares at the two men in front of him and tries very hard to decide which side he’s supposed to fall on. On the one hand, Pete seems to have – maddeningly, disconcertingly, _confusingly_ – become his best friend over the course of a week. The urge to protect him, to defend his honour in the face of Gabe’s onslaught is sharp enough to hurt. On the other hand, maybe this is part of Pete’s plan, maybe he’s supposed to defend _Gabe_ to weave that magical spell of reconciliation between them. Patrick isn’t drunk enough to make sense of what he’s thinking so he dives in half-cocked, a plan that’s literally _never_ served him well in the past.

 

“Pete, back the fuck off,” he begins sharply. The way amber eyes widen in confusion could be a sign that this is the wrong thing to do, or it could be a carefully orchestrated part of the act so Patrick presses on. “You don’t get to talk to him like that. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking bringing you here anyway, you’re nothing but a… a glorified rent boy.”

 

_“Excuse_ me?” There’s no confusion in his eyes, not anymore. No, now it’s straight-up hurt and burning fury as he flicks his eyes between Patrick’s own perfectly executed confusion – what the hell is he _doing?_ – and Gabe’s twinkling mirth.

 

“Stripper, hooker, what’s the difference?” Patrick is continuing although every instinct, every neuron, is screaming at him to just shut up, just apologise and slink away to his room to let everything calm down before he fucks up what he’s starting to suspect could be the best thing to ever happen to him. “Cum for cash, right?”

 

No, no, no. Why is his mouth still _saying_ these things? Pete pauses, head cocked and eyes burning with something Patrick can’t quite place, can’t quite understand as he nods slowly. His lip curls in a slow, cruel sort of a smirk that doesn’t twinkle up into his golden gaze and, as Patrick sucks in a breath that burns stale in his lungs, Pete speaks softly.

 

“You’d know all about paying for it, wouldn’t you, Patrick?” Pete spits words that drip with venom, hung with a glare that says he’s done with this shit. “Yeah, you’re the resident expert, aren’t you?”

 

“Wait, what?” Gabe doesn’t know what’s going on but the grin on his face suggests he’s desperate to find out. “He _paid_ you to fuck him? Oh, that’s a new low, Patrick, even for you…”

 

“Better than that,” Pete shrugs but the nonchalance isn’t reflected in the set of his mouth, in the way his eyes dull with hurt. “He paid me to pretend to date him, to make _you_ jealous. I’m not a stripper you fucking moron, I’m a snowboard instructor, I work for the resort.”

 

Gabe’s spiteful guffaw of laughter echoes around the cabin, rings through Patrick’s skull and into his ears as he stares at Pete in horror. How _could_ he? Pete stares back, chin raised in defiance but eyes haunted with something else, something Patrick doesn’t have the generosity of spirit to try and decipher right now as tears find their freedom, burning hot and wet over his cheeks. His voice is a vicious hiss wrapped in a hiccup as he snarls venomously at Pete to the soundtrack of Gabe’s mirth.

 

“Get your stuff and get the fuck out,” he snarls. “Get out and stay the hell away from me.”

 

Pete’s already striding for the stairs, his response tossed over his shoulder as Patrick bolts for the relative safety of the dining room.

 

“My pleasure. You were right, this was a fucking stupid idea.”

 

_~*~ New Year’s Eve ~*~_

The cabin is painfully quiet without Pete around. Patrick swings between a morose ache of _missing_ that weighs down his chest and makes it hard to draw breath and the kind of fired hatred that heats his blood and makes him want to throw punches.

 

He hasn’t left his bedroom since Pete slammed out of the cabin, white-hot fury and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He left his book, tucked into the drawer of the nightstand and now Patrick isn’t sure if he should return it or if that looks like feeble desperation based on the tenuous link of a tattered paperback. He’s started reading it himself, for want of anything better to do, thumbing through the pages of the story he hasn’t read since high school. It feels, in a strange way, like slipping into Pete’s mind although he’s not sure that’s anywhere he has any right or inclination to be.

 

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he last ate and the swirling nausea of humiliation has given way to the crawling pain of hunger pangs. He’s too terrified to leave the room, even for the length of time it would take to make a sandwich or some toast, the fear of Gabe meeting him in the kitchen with that knowing smirk curling his lips just too much to bear. But he needs to eat and it _is_ New Year’s Eve and, after all, he has those tickets booked for the gala at the lodge. Would it really be so bad to throw on his best jeans and cardigan combo, shove a fedora over hair he’s barely bothered to comb and go and sit in misery where there’s music and hopefully a decent buffet?

 

Ultimately, he decides it would not. Showering and shaving without looking himself in the eye in the mirror isn’t the most straightforward of tasks and the snags and cuts under the line of his jaw burn like a bitch with a splash of aftershave. What does it matter? It’s not like anyone will be paying him any attention other than to laugh at him anyway, might as well give them a show. He dresses without care – the first polo shirt he finds that isn’t creased to shit, whichever cardigan he grabs first, jeans that look vaguely clean and his trusty black boots. He’s not glamorous but he doesn’t need to be to prop up the bar and get shitfaced. Forty-eight hours, he reminds himself, just forty-eight hours and he’ll be home in LA and _safe._

The lodge is warm and lit for a party; the dance floor sparkling and the bar something of a shroud, a shadow-cloaked crook of a finger that calls to those that need courage to relax or the elixir of amnesia. Patrick considers himself a firm member of the second camp and slides onto a stool close to Will’s position, smiling a weak greeting and signalling for a drink. Will shouldn’t need to ask what he wants; he’s ordered the same expensive Scottish malt every time, but he leans against the bar in his snowy-white shirt and neat little bowtie and, the face of concern, pitches a question, “Something wrong, Patrick?”

 

Where to start?

 

“No,” he shakes his head slowly, eyes fixed with longing on the Aberlour glowing golden in its optic behind the bar. “Nothing wrong, er… My usual, please?”

 

“I have a better idea,” Will smiles that secretive little smile he’s so good at, brown eyes all but disappearing as they crinkle at the corners. “Let me mix you something special, something just for you.”

 

“I don’t really like cocktails,” Patrick objects weakly in the moment that the doors open and Gabe and Andy step inside. “Actually, on second thoughts, just make it strong, yeah?”

 

Will nods and smiles and begins to mix the drink, a little from this bottle, a little from that, a drop from one of those mysterious decanters neatly regimented on their shelf below the glasses. Patrick no longer wonders what they contain, it takes too much effort to summon the will to care. The drink is placed in front of him, his flutter of a crisp twenty ignored with an enigmatic wave of an elegant, slim-fingered hand and Will moves on to the next patron as Patrick sips and grimaces at the burn.

 

There’s the thump of an ass hitting wood two stools down from him. The familiar slouch of a chin into a toffee-skinned hand and amber eyes burning into him like he actually matters.

 

Pete.

 

Patrick doesn’t look up, stares down studiously into his glass as all of the blood in his body seems to relocate to his face, to heat him with crimson humiliation as he wonders with pathetically impotent irritation why Pete can’t just fuck off and leave him to his misery. Will moves in, mutters half-heard words and whispered sentiments into Pete’s ear then he’s mixing him a drink too; a little of this, a little of that and – Patrick’s sure – a drop or two from that same bottle on the shelf. Pete knocks his back in one, head in his hands for a moment or two and then, thankfully, he disappears from the periphery of Patrick’s vision. He can breathe again, the air rushing back into his lungs in a grateful flood of oxygen only to be ripped away in a vacuum of desperation when a warm hand rests against his shoulder.

 

“Hey,” Pete mutters, hand dropping uselessly to his side as Patrick jolts away on ridiculous impulse. He’s a vision in a faded Guns N Roses shirt and jeans that stick to each inch of lean legs and the peach perfect curve of his ass, a leather jacket slung over the top as an afterthought. “Look, I wanted to say sorry – ”

 

“Nothing to apologise for,” Patrick sing-songs, panicked, tossing back his drink for something to do with his hands. There’s something hot and painful lodged in his chest and he’s unsure if it’s emotional trauma or the onset of a heart attack. It’s disconcerting. “I did a dumb thing, I got found out, no big deal, right?”

 

Pete shakes his head as he leans back against the bar, as he kicks up a Converse-clad foot against the wood and braces back against his elbows, eyes gazing off into the middle distance. Patrick aches inside for all of the wrong reasons – he shouldn’t think of Pete as anything more than a pretty fool dragged into a stupid scheme – knuckles glowing white against the crystal shine of his glass. Pete clears his throat after a moment or two, a sure sign that he’s going to speak when all Patrick wants him to do is walk away and leave him to his misery and mystery drink.

 

“I meant what I said, you know,” his voice is low, barely audible over the beat of the music – a live band, fucking _finally_ – his eyes sincere and warm. “You’re… Well, you’re fucking _great_ , you know? You’re talented and funny and I… I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was just angry. I wanted… Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry.”

 

There’s a strange fizzing in Patrick’s stomach again, that same tightening of his throat and chest he felt out on the slope that first morning. Something that turns his blood to bubbles that tingle sharp and bright under his skin and seems to take control of his tongue as he pivots on his stool and reaches across to touch the skin-warm leather of Pete’s jacket.

 

“I’m sorry too,” he admits quietly, thumb scoring lazy circles against the cuff of the jacket and he could swear he can see Will grinning at him from the corner of his eye. “Those things I said? I was just… I didn’t know – “

 

There’s more to say, syllables and sentences that won’t come close to justifying the way he lashed out, the unnecessary things he said and for what? To try and tempt back a man that doesn’t want him, hasn’t wanted him for months and fucked his personal trainer behind his back? Pete is _good_ , he’s a kind man with pretty eyes and a smile that glows like dusk-dusted snowfall. He can’t admit out loud how much he enjoyed the warm curl of Pete’s limbs wound around him in bed, how easy he found their time together, their pointless conversations and giggled confessions. He doesn’t deserve a man like Pete but before he can articulate any of this, before he can beg for forgiveness he doesn’t come close to deserving, a shadow looms across them that glows with honey-warm skin and eyes the colour of bitter espresso.

 

“Hey,” Gabe smiles like he hasn’t spent the past week sliding between patronising sneers and irritated sighs, as though he didn’t call Patrick a _four-track player with eyes_ a day ago. “Am I interrupting? Just, I wanted to speak to you… Alone.”

 

Pete raises his eyebrows like he wants to object, his eyes flicking to Patrick’s hand against his sleeve like it means something. Patrick still isn’t sure it does, he wants it to be more, wants to slide his hand under the worn cotton of Pete’s shirt and stroke the satin soft skin of his back as they fall into a kiss, to run his thumb along the stubbled curve of his jaw and bite kisses that glow with bruises into skin like caramel. He wants so much more but he daren’t consider it, not with Gabe warm and real and _reasonable_ at this side and asking for his company. He nods, squeezes Pete’s wrist with a murmur of, _“give me a minute,”_ and rises to his feet, throwing on his coat and the scarf Pete bought him on the way out of the door. If Gabe’s going to give him more shit at least he’ll listen to it with the faint scent of Pete close and warm.

 

Outside, in the kind of cold that burns lungs and stings exposed skin sharp and bright, Patrick stares up at the stars and waits for Gabe to speak. It’s beautiful out here, he’s never really paid attention, never stopped to watch the stars or the way the snow glows silver in the moonlight in a way that reminds him of Pete’s smile. Pete, Jesus Christ, Pete, he shouldn’t feel this way, this warm glow of satisfaction that he got him, only for a kiss on a mountainside dance floor but for that moment in time he was all Patrick’s. He draws another breath of Ax and warm skin caught in soft wool and remembers the taste of a gentle, talented tongue and flushed-plump lips. It’s almost a shock when Gabe speaks, his voice sharp against the muted sound of revelry behind them.

 

“You look great tonight, Patrick,” he observes with a grin that twinkles up into his eyes with passion and promise. “Really good.”

 

“Thanks?” Patrick replies cautiously, waits with tense shoulders for the insult to follow; it doesn’t, just another soft smile and fingers reaching to lace with his. Patrick doesn’t accept, just pushes his hand a little further into his coat pocket. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

“Us,” Gabe shrugs as though it should be obvious, as though Patrick should know each thought that flitters through that pretty head. “I’ve been thinking, babe. Maybe I was too hasty, you know? Maybe… Maybe you and me should try again. That’s what you want, right?”

 

Patrick thinks. Patrick cocks his head at the stars and ponders. _Is_ that what he wants? If someone had asked him a week ago he wouldn’t have paused for a moment before he hurled himself back into Gabe’s arms, willing to forgive any and all indiscretions committed in the interim. But now, right now, on the mountainside cast in starlight and that tingle in his gut that aches down to his toes, he doesn’t think he can accept. He chews his lip as he considers his answer, as Gabe lounges back against the wall with the kind of confidence of a man that’s been forgiven before.

 

“What about Andy?” Patrick asks after a pause, examining his boots against the slush-grey snow at his feet.

 

“What about him?” Gabe shrugs like it doesn’t even matter. It matters to Patrick because Andy looks at Gabe like he loves him, the same look that Patrick always reserved for him. “C’mon _cariño,_ don’t you want it to be how it was?”

 

“How could it ever be how it was?” Patrick asks softly, breath misting clouds in front of him as he finally meets Gabe’s eyes, sees the self-assured confidence waver for just a moment in a way that blooms satisfaction in Patrick’s chest. “You told me exactly what you think of me, told me you cheated on me for six months. Do you expect me to overlook that?”

 

“I – ”

 

“Let me explain something to you, Gabriel,” Patrick begins, self-respect flooding through him on words murmured from plump lips whilst amber eyes gazed at him, assurances that he _is_ good enough, he _is_ worth it. “I’m worth more than you gave me, I’m worth someone that loves me. I deserve someone that feels lucky to have me instead of someone that knows I’m grateful they’ll pretend.”

 

The pause between them hangs palpable and heavy. Gabe joins Patrick in staring at his shoes, a toe scuffed through the slush at their feet, his initials swirled into mud-tinged ice.

 

“So,” Gabe begins followed by a long pause, the only soundtrack their breathing and the noise of the party behind them. “You’re… Saying no? To me?”

 

“I think I am,” Patrick can scarcely believe it himself, this is everything he thought he wanted all wrapped up in a belated holiday bow and he’s shoving it back with his nose turned up. But the words aren’t harsh and he doesn’t feel any malice, just a soft glow of sadness that it had to end this way. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what’s happening. We’re done.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Gabe mutters eventually, as he steps forward and pulls Patrick into a hug that smells of home but tastes platonic. Patrick doesn’t resist, slips his arms around Gabe’s waist and presses his cheek to the solid warmth of his chest for the last time. He doesn’t feel sad though, just a sense of justified inevitability as Gabe breathes into the top of his fedora. “I treated you like shit, huh?”

 

“You could’ve done better,” Patrick admits with a smile. “I probably could, too.”

 

“You could always go get that little asshole in there?” He teases, inclining his head to encompass the lodge and all contained within, to single out Pete with the slightest jerk of his jaw. “You’re cute together, you know. I don’t care how this shit happened, he’s totally hot for you.”

 

“Hmm,” Patrick doesn’t believe it but it’s a nice thought and even if Pete isn’t in his future, there’s someone out there that’s waiting for a guy like Patrick, someone that will adore him in the ways everyone deserves to be adored. He’ll find them eventually, he knows he will. “No hard feelings?”

 

“None,” Gabe shakes his head, holds him briefly at arm’s length then presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Go get him, Patrick, he’s waiting for you.”

 

“Fuck you,” Patrick calls good-naturedly as Gabe strides away, all long legs and handsome grin, middle finger extended in playful response. That wasn’t the exchange he ever thought he’d have with Gabe, not the reunion against the snow that he imagined but he feels… Pretty good, all things considered. Battered, a little bruised, but ready to take on the world once again. He stares up at the stars once more, the cold biting tingles to his cheeks and fingertips that fizz through his blood as a shooting star blazes its way across the crushed velvet of the skyscape.

 

“Hey,” Pete murmurs, sliding a hand into Patrick’s pocket to entwine their fingers, squeezing as softly as a promise. The warm breath that tickles his ear makes him jump, the words whispered low and quiet on shimmering soundwaves that crackle between them. Warm lips nuzzle a soft kiss just behind his ear but he doesn’t take his eyes from the sky as he whispers his response.

 

“Did you see that?” He points to trace the curve of the falling star with a fingertip, feels Pete shake his head slowly. “Shame. We need to talk, right?”

 

“Do we?” Pete asks quietly, his voice soft with something Patrick can’t place. “It seems like talking just ruins everything.”

 

“I think there’s something I need to ask you,” Patrick takes a deep breath, his heart pounding a discordant thrum against his ribs as he runs exclusively on fear of rejection. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to hear the excuses that will inevitably fall from Pete’s lips and yet he’s bound by the compulsion to see this through to its conclusion. Pete cocks his head, just like he did that first morning on the slopes, expression unreadable as eyes like burning coals spark shockwaves down Patrick’s spine. “Are you into guys?”

 

Pete nods slowly, the corners of his lips twitching up into the smallest of smiles, “I am.”

 

“Are- are you into grumpy little guys with bad hair and glasses?” He asks, hope shining from him like sunrise. Pete snorts a laugh, that ugly, braying, _adorable_ laugh, teeth shining as bright as the stars in the gloom.

 

“Be a little more specific, Patrick,” he prompts, nibbling another kiss to Patrick’s neck that jolts buzzing shocks down to Patrick’s fingertips. He takes a deep, steadying breath as those warm lips nuzzle against skin that blazes with sensitivity and now he gets it, now he wants to moan and cry out at each brush of heated skin against his own. His back is to the wall and Pete to his front, his face cupped in warm hands as eyes blaze into his. He realises in that moment that his ocean eyes won’t drown those flames; Pete is the untamed fire of an oil slick that can dance on the water. They’re the heat and the cool that shouldn’t coexist but they do, _they do._

 

“Are you into… me?” He whispers into the warm pocket of air that hangs between their mouths, hands sliding under the back of Pete’s leather jacket to slip along the heated skin just above his waistband. He’s sort of embarrassed that he’s kind of half hard.

 

“Oh yes,” Pete brings their lips together in the briefest sharp spark of a kiss. “I’m _so_ into you…”

 

The second time Pete kisses him, Patrick swears he melts a little on the inside, softening up like snow in the springtime under the warmth of lips that taste of whatever-the-fuck William just fed them both. There’s fire and ice under his skin, a cold burn that aches through him like blinding need.

 

The second time Pete kisses him, Patrick kisses back like he means it, un-gloved hands that sting with the cold twisted into the dark mess of Pete’s hair as he tastes his way across the soft, tender parts of Pete’s mouth. He tests the hardness of his teeth, the ridges of his palate and the sweet, delicate brush of his tongue as moans that sound like songs shudder from his throat.

 

The second time Pete kisses him, Patrick _knows_ it’s real. He can taste the dark desire on Pete’s tongue, feel the urgent press of a body that aches like he does, the urgent arch of hips and greedy grasp of hands sliding under clothing just to brush against skin for a moment.

 

The second time Pete kisses him, Patrick can barely tear himself away for long enough to murmur a request.

 

“You want to come back to my place?” He asks quietly as Pete pulls at the scarf wound around his neck, determined to expose enough skin to bite a bruise like his lips into the pale line of his throat. Patrick whimpers, eyes closed, lips parted as fire crackles over his skin. “Fuck, I- I just remembered, you left your book, you should pick it up…”

 

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, sparkling with amusement and layered rich with want. “The book. I should _totally_ come get that, right? Is… Is _now_ good? Shall we get it now?”

 

Patrick hums his approval directly at the stars, smile as wide and as bright as the glitter-scattered stretch of ebony silk of the night sky above them. There’s a part of him – if he’s honest it’s a rather overwhelmingly _large_ part – that wants to sink to his knees right there. His long-forgotten slutty side that wants to drag Pete behind the wall, pull down his zipper and suck down the length of his cock with a greedy mouth and hands that grasp desperate bruises into honeyed hips. But the part of him that isn’t controlled by his cock whispers all kinds of threatening little warnings about boring details like _hypothermia_ and _public indecency_ and _frostbite of the dick_. So, he grabs the warmth of Pete’s hand – gloves missing so they can freeze together presumably – and together they dance on light feet down the shimmer-sparkle of the frosted walkway towards the cabin at the fringe of the woods.

 

It’s icy as all get out, treacherous under Patrick’s boots and Pete’s Converse and they slip and slide on frosted giggles that hang in the air like smoke between them. They grab at shirts and belts with chilled-cold hands as they stumble and stagger as fast as they dare, pushing up against one another as Patrick fumbles with numb fingers for the key. He slips and drops it once, twice, laughs soft as smoke as Pete pries it from his fingers before he can try a third time and, with a huffed curse, the door concedes and they tumble through together into the dim warmth of the living room.

 

Cold hands find their way under the back of his shirt, tracing patterns against sensitive skin that has him biting breathy moans into the curve of his lower lip, eyes drifting closed in ecstatic approval. If Pete can have him shuddering his desire against the solid press of his chest from just the kiss of his fingertips, Patrick decides it can only bode well for what might come next. He cups the stubbled line of Pete’s jaw in one cold hand, finds the warmth of the satin skin under his waistband with the other and draws him in slow and sweet for another tasting kiss. Their third kiss is desperate and aching, it’s a slam of hips like waves as they grind together like the denim between them doesn’t matter. Patrick wonders – though he knows it’s idiotic – if he can keep count of every kiss, tonight and tomorrow and every other night together.

 

Pete’s hand finds his zipper, assured and confident, works open his belt and pops the button on his jeans and then –

 

_“Fuck shit ass_ your hand is fucking _freezing!”_ Patrick squeals, jolting like he’s been stung as fingers like ice brush the root of his cock. “Get upstairs and warm your hands, asshole.”

 

“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty,” Pete loses a laugh in the soft wool of Patrick’s scarf, unwinding it with eager hands as he sighs his approval into the shell of his ear. His lips feather a trail over the throb of Patrick’s thrumming pulse, teeth grazing a blaze of pleasure-pain against sensitive skin, scoring the heat with the soft slick of a damp velvet tongue. Patrick is melting, sagging softly into Pete’s arms as he whimpers a moan and thrusts his hips forward weakly. It’s everything he wants and all he hasn’t let himself acknowledge, it’s falling apart whilst being held together and he aches for more.

 

“Upstairs,” he repeats, sure he won’t do this on the couch, won’t surrender to the fantasy of Pete eager and willing in such inadequate circumstances. Not when there’s an ostentatious hand-carved four poster bed just a few short steps away.

 

They’re still wrapped around one another as they stagger up the stairs, as though if they allow a breath of air to pass between them it might sweep one of them away. Clothes are shed but contact maintained; the thump of Patrick’s coat on a stair, his fedora plopped onto the bannister at a jaunty angle, Pete’s scarf tossed over to flutter down onto the living room floor.

 

The bedroom door slams back against the wall in the moment before Pete slams back against it, driven against the solid press of it by the sheer force of Patrick’s ardour. There are pale hands wrapped around inked wrists, pushing arms up and over messy black hair as lips press and crush together around the dance of eager tongues. Patrick’s hips surge forward, compelled to press and push in maddening undulations of hard heat against rough denim. His hands slide to the muscled warmth of Pete’s shoulders, shoving his jacket back and down until it thumps to the floor. Next, the hem of his washed-out shirt yanked up and over his head – kisses bitten heated and needing through the stretch of thin cotton – and then… Then there’s _skin._

Patrick pulls back from lips that taste of that sticky-sweet concoction they both drank in the bar, leans back on his heels and takes in the sight of Pete shirtless and flushed desperate before him. His fingers trail heat from Pete’s collarbone to his navel, fingertip looping a flourish around that stupid tattoo just below then they’re hooked into the waistband and he’s hauling Pete across the room – pausing to kick closed the door – twirling him like a waltz to shove him back against the mattress. Pete clings tight, fingers caught sharp in Patrick’s cardigan as they tumble to the bed together, a messy tangle of limbs and lips and groans lost in damp heat.

 

Pete pulls the flush of Patrick’s lower lip between his own, nips and sucks to the edge of tender soreness as they drag and pull at clothes, fumbling with zippers and tugging at buttons. Everything gives, cotton and denim and the heavy thud of shoes against hardwood and they’re stripped to boxers – sensible plain grey Calvins for Patrick, bright yellow and peppered with race cars for Pete – and lust-bloomed skin. It’s not that Patrick hasn’t seen it before, this tanned expanse of lean muscle traced with a rainbow of ink, no, but this is the first time it’s been _for him_ and it stirs his thoughts, fires his tongue.

 

“Tell me what you want, Pete,” he murmurs, thighs straddling Pete’s as he bites heat into Pete’s throat, teeth against skin that tastes of salt and cologne.

 

Pete doesn’t answer right away, just presses Patrick’s hand to the hard swell of his prick, eyes glazed dark as he murmurs from swollen lips, “You. Fuck, Patrick, just… Just you.”

 

His hand quests under cotton to find the smooth flush of Pete’s cock, to curl his fingers around the length of it and graze his thumb over the head. Thighs tense under his own, muscles cording sharp as he strokes, slow and sure, from base to tip and back again. Pete cries out, sharp and high, head rolled back and jaw slack. He captures Pete’s lips once again, tastes the desperation in each moan caught on an eager tongue as he reaches down and frees his own cock, lets them graze and catch as hips rock and slide together. And Patrick decides that whatever tomorrow is going to bring, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he _needs_ this.

 

Pete’s hand finds his shoulder, nails biting sharp points of pressure into pale skin as he urges, guides, pushes Patrick over and onto his back, as he moves to straddle him all graceful and lithe. He blinks up, vision soft at the edges without his glasses, and watches the way eyes lit with starlight follow each inch of his skin with aching hunger. His hands find the golden curve of Pete’s hips, thumbs tracing the way it flares to the line of his ass and he burns with the needs and wants that trace his blood like fire.

 

“I want to suck your dick,” Pete breathes, voice rich with promise and fire that glows up into his blown-black eyes. “Then I want… I want…”

 

“Then I’m gonna fuck you,” Patrick groans, nails digging deep as he drags down the hard press of Pete’s hips into his, as he grinds up to bring the blood-flushed press of their cocks together sharp and blinding. “Gonna make you moan for me…”

 

Pete bites a bruise into his collarbone, rose-coloured heat bursting bright across his vision as he groans delight into the delicate shell of Pete’s ear, hands fisted into jet-dark hair. Pete doesn’t stop, dragging a trail of lips-teeth-tongue across Patrick’s throat, down his chest, pausing to suck flame hot sparks of pleasure into a tight, pink nipple that shoots spikes of want to course hot through his blood stream. He licks and sucks and bites his way across the soft curve of Patrick’s stomach, whimpering moans that ring with need against the pale skin as Patrick bunches the sheets tight in his fists and groans his anticipation up to the bedposts.

 

Eyes heavy, Patrick watches Pete pause on his knees between his spread thighs, watches the greedy way Pete’s eyes drink him down like vintage champagne. Fingertips graze an entire score into the sweat-misted shine of Patrick’s skin, nails raking fine ruby welts that glow against ivory dusted with gold. His cock is between them, thick and hard and flushed dark with blood, veins twisted taut around the shaft as it twitches under Pete’s hungry gaze.

 

“Fuck, is that for me?” He asks, fingers sliding tantalisingly close along Patrick’s thigh, down the line of his groin, stroking feather-soft over his balls. Desire shudders down Patrick’s spine, shivers shaking him weak as he strokes a hand along the stretch of Pete’s arm, wrist to shoulder and back again, tender fingers twirling a dance against the ink that swirls skin.

 

There are hands at his hips, his boxers slipped away and he lies, shivering even though the room is warm, trembling under gentle hands and lips that find tender places along his inner thighs, legs spread as a warm tongue feathers softly over the delicate skin of his perineum. His hand is twisted into coarse, black hair by determined fingers as Pete murmurs, in the hum and crackle of time that his lips hover, radiating heat and need, over the nerve-bright bluntness of the tip of Patrick’s cock, “You can pull if you want, I like it.”

 

And then he gets to work, the heated slide of his mouth slick against the satin of Patrick’s skin. Pete conjures noises from his throat he thought he’d forgotten how to make, coaxes sensation layered over sensation like he’s been made to suck his cock. He shuffles to his elbow, hand stroking soft through hair as eyes meet – copper and marine – as plump lips frame the swell of his dick. It’s liquid heat sensation, the steady pull of sweet suction and the flickered roll of a clever tongue against sensitive places. Tingling need tightens his belly, as Pete pulls off with a moan, as he strokes and tugs with a delicate hand and smiles needy desire up at Patrick.

 

“Good?” Is all he asks, free hand burning a brand into the flesh of Patrick’s thigh.

 

“Good,” Patrick agrees, robbed breathless of anything but just enough oxygen to keep him living as he watches, entranced, as Pete slides back down over his cock. He feels the tight heat of Pete’s throat opening to swallow him, sees stars as Pete works his lips and feathers his tongue, feels the contraction of him swallowing like a promise. He gives in to the offer to pull, dragging at the hair caught in his hands, drawing Pete along in the rhythm he wants as his hips rock up in time. He feels that heat spark again as warm, gentle hands began to work his balls, pulling and tugging softly in time with his mouth. Patrick snarls curses into the air between them, thrashes his head and rolls his hips and begs for Pete to _“Stop, no please never stop, oh God you need to stop…”_

 

He stutter-stammers on the knife blade of ecstasy, desperate to tumble down and lose himself in the sweet relief so much more intense than anything he’s been able to grant himself in a lonely shower stall but just as eager to wait. To see what the rest of the night might bring as it hangs before them, bright with endless possibilities. He eases Pete back, his cock wet and red and _angry_ against the cream pale of his stomach, twitching objections as Pete presses close, the slick rub of his dick against Patrick’s the sweetest of torments.

 

“I’ve got one, I know I’ve got one, fuck, _please_ tell me I’ve got one,” Pete gropes for his jeans, his wallet, lips barely leaving Patrick’s as he fumbles blindly. Patrick hears the soft tear of foiled plastic, the slick of latex sliding free then Pete’s hand is on his cock, stroking the leaking length of it as he slides the condom down. Patrick drags him close, tangles his fingers in the thick crown of jet-dark hair as he tastes the wanton need of fuck-flushed lips.

 

Pete is shuffling swiftly out his shorts, pushing them down over the line of his hips, kicked over honey-sweet thighs and off, shoved somewhere inconsequential as he straddles Patrick’s hips, the swell of his cock pressed up perfectly to the crease of Pete’s ass, as perfect as whispered promises. Pete yelps as Patrick rolls them over, lands in the cradle of well-muscled thighs with a groan, weight on his hands as he nips sharp kisses into the hollow of Pete’s throat.

 

“Fuck, Pete,” he breathes, soft as first-time touches into the delicate shell of his ear. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that? I want… I need…”

 

He can’t vocalise it, can just shove to his knees and urge Pete to his front, hands gentle and sure as he guides a pillow under his hips and spreads his legs once more, amber eyes watching him with interest over a tattooed shoulder, the flush of his lips curled into a smile that glows golden. He presses his fingertips to the meat of Pete’s ass, testing the press of muscle that flexes like the tide under the satin of his skin, worships the exquisite curve of it with the brush of his mouth as it flares from his hips like a work of art.

 

He finds lube, tucked in the nightstand for the _just in case_ of reconciliation, slicked up fingers grazing a delicate slide against sensitive skin. Fuck, but it’s been _months_ since he’s done this, _years_ since he actually wanted to with an ache that throbs a pulse straight through his core. He lowers his head and presses delicate kisses from wet-pursed lips across the round of his cheeks, trails his tongue lightly along the crease, bites a faint bruise to the underside just above his thigh as Pete moans and bucks his hips back in greedy expectation, “Patrick, come on, _please…”_

 

He soothes him softly with murmured hushing and firm hands against flesh, thumbs pressing into the cleft of Pete’s ass as, with gentle tenderness, he presses him open. He’s greedy for it, for every whimper he can turn to a scream, every moan of his name he can command to ring through the cabin like fevered song. He drags his tongue, flat and wet and wanting, along the crease of Pete’s ass, tasting the salt-musk of puckered skin as Pete freezes, locked tight and rigid with white-knuckled need as he keens out a cry that shudders through Patrick. He doesn’t offer him any reprieve, working the pointed tip of his tongue around the delicate rim, licking desire and want against skin bright with need and nerves.

 

He works in a lube-slicked finger, surrounds it in smooth, tight heat, tongue sliding greedily alongside it, pressing just inside as Pete muffles a scream that shudders with ecstasy into the pillow. He begs for more around insensible moans peppered with _Patrick, fuck, please, PATRICK._ He makes noises no one has made for Patrick in so long, shivers with desperation against the play of Patrick’s mouth against the delicate pucker between his cheeks, rising in fervour and pitch as he slides in a second finger. The noises stop, every shivering muscle pulled taut as Patrick finds that spot, that blissful little thrum of perfect pleasure, tucked and hidden deep inside, as he presses it to a beat that’s all their own and works the slick heat of his tongue around the sharp quest of his fingers.

 

“Oh fuck, _fuck_ … I- I’m ready…” Pete whispers as he thrusts desperate into the pillow beneath him, skin flushed with lust. “Come on, Patrick, _please_ , swear I’m ready, need you, need you so fucking bad right now – ”

  

“I’ve got you,” Patrick reassures him, unsure how true that can possibly be as Pete slides to his knees, legs spread and on display, sliding his fingers around and inside like he just can’t bear to lose the sensation for even a moment. Patrick joins him, crooks a finger in alongside Pete’s, fucking him until he’s chanting delirious pleas, begging like he can draw down the stars around them. As though he believes he can make it so if he just finds the right words to weave around them and Patrick’s head is full of pretty platitudes, of words that made no sense in high school but now they do; _flesh stays no further reason but rising at thy name._

 

“Patrick, fuck, _now,”_ Pete’s voice breaks on the last word, shatters like glass or ice or promises as he presses back with blinding desperation in the line of his hips and the curve of his ass. Patrick _wants_ but not like this, he wants to watch, to drink in the sight of Pete as he falls apart.

 

He moves him, murmuring reassurance as Pete babbles begging to the ceiling, voice a ragged cry that rings up amongst the rafters above them as he spreads his legs, digs his heels into the mattress and arches up in invitation that Patrick is desperate to seize. He strokes his cock, quick and hard to match his breathing, groaning half-hearted complaint as Patrick pauses to slick himself up, a quick stroke of lube and then he’s ready. He braces over Pete, cock in hand and lined up with care to the tight pucker, the snug wrap of golden thighs around his waist as their eyes meet glazed and needing and he whispers, “Are you…?”

 

“Oh fuck, _yes,”_ Pete breathes, nails digging dull points of tingling pressure into Patrick’s shoulders. Cries lose themselves in one another’s mouths, aching need grasped into hips and coiled tight shoulders as he sinks slowly into Pete, as he feels him absorb the length of his cock from the blood-gorged tip, inch by hot-tight inch until his hips rest flush to the curve of Pete’s ass. He stutters breath between them like prayers, knees sunk into the mattress as Pete clings to him, eyes as wide as the moon that streams through the windows to bathe the room in ethereal silver. “Just... Just give me a minute, okay?”

 

Patrick will give him a minute, an hour, a lifetime, whatever he needs to stay seated in the heat of Pete’s body, arms tangled around him and lips searching copper-salt skin. He licks desperate possession into the warm curve of Pete’s throat, golden skin cast bright in the moonlight, hair turned to onyx like the lust-blown bloom of his pupils ringed slight with amber. He’s beautiful, breath-taking, blinding and so many more words Patrick’s shock-shuddering brain can’t think to remember. He whispers hushed assurance into the shell of his ear, mutters filth and fantasy that dances soft and easy on his tongue where words have always stuck and caught. They roll with easy honesty now, quick and fevered from his lips as he waits, tightly bound, for Pete to relax against him.

 

He feels it without Pete breathing a word, feels the moment his body slackens down into the mattress just an inch, the way breath held hot and stale in his lungs gusts over teeth clenched tight. There’s the shift and roll of hips, the sharp clench of tight heat around his cock and, with the soft brush of gentle lips, Patrick rolls his right back. He barely moves, just testing the way Pete responds beneath him, revelling in the way nails scrape deliciously from his shoulders to his hips and back again, the way Pete breathes a soft, “Oh fuck, God, yes, Patrick _more_ …”

 

He gives more, gives _everything_ , pulling out with breath bated, pausing for a moment, just a second to watch the way Pete’s eyes flutter, the way his eyelashes play feathered and soft against his cheekbones and then he slides back home with a cry that he can’t silence. Pete is perfect beneath him, the gathering heat of flawless fantasy made flesh, each sordid thought that’s whispered dangerous into Patrick’s ear over the past ten days roaring up to greet him burning and brilliant. The morning doesn’t matter, not that or the day after or any of the other days ahead of them, nothing but this night, this blinding moment of sublimity with Pete consuming each and every inch of his heart and body.

 

There are kisses bitten to his neck, faint stubble scratching sore points against tender skin as fingers wind into his hair, tugging and pulling in all of the ways he would have sworn he hates until it’s done by Pete. He hears a low, growling snarl as Pete slips a leg over his shoulder, forcing him exquisitely deeper, realises from some dim and distant corner of his mind that it’s resonating from _his_ chest like a cry of possession. He braces up, digs greedy fingers into Pete’s thigh and, with a hiss of _“gonna fuck you through the mattress,”_ he lets go of his self-control, feels the threads of it pick and unravel within him like rending fabric as he begins to thrust deep and hard.

 

He knows he’s found that spot, that tingling little epicentre of tight-wound need, hidden deep within as Pete falls slack beneath him, as his eyes stretch wide and dark and wanting, as his spit-damp, fuck-flushed lips form a rough scrawled O on a face blushed up with lust and need. He feels it in the way Pete locks up tight around him in the seconds after, in the way he cries out endless desire muffled in a sharp bite of Patrick’s shoulder that blooms red and angry and perfect with the score of his teeth. He drops his head, sucking desperate brands to Pete’s collarbone, licking passion into the thorns strung across his chest as he slides a hand between them and curls it around the length of Pete’s leaking cock.

 

Patrick wants so much, he wants to luxuriate in each thrust, in each moment of blissful ecstasy as it coils around them like the sparkling light that lit the dancefloor for them. He aches to kiss each and every inch of Pete’s body, to hold him close as they fuck slow and lazy in front of that big picture window in his house in Malibu. He wants a lifetime to take Pete apart, examine everything inside and piece him back together again with a little of himself caught up within. He wants everything and so much more but knows it can never be, shoves the sadness aside to focus on the heat coiling tight and liquid in his belly.

 

He strokes Pete harder, fucks into him faster, sliding against his prostate again and again as he bucks and whines beneath him. Nails score a masterpiece of lust into his back as Pete’s hands scrabble everywhere, searching desperately for some kind of anchor point as he lifts his hips in a silent plea. Patrick licks another kiss to his throat, tastes the burn of cologne over the salt of skin, a combination that bites sharp and perfect on his tongue. They’re moaning nonsensical promises to one another, passion-fucked declarations that barely make sense but mean everything and more as he feels himself drifting closer and closer to that point, that blinding moment of searing heat and pounding pleasure. Pete’s heel digs and slides against his ass and thigh, the dull thump and drag discordant against the measured thrusts and crash of their hips.

 

Pete comes first, the gossamer ribbons of pearl pumping slick from him to splash Patrick’s stomach and stain his skin with bitter salt. There’s beauty in the fall of his jaw, perfect and golden, the way his eyes spring wide then flutter closed, his knuckles white against the cotton of the sheets caught in grasping fists. It’s overwhelming, ethereal and shining and for a moment Patrick stutters to a stop, compelled to simply watch, entranced and enchanted, as Pete falls apart beneath and around him, shuddering shockwaves straight onto his cock sound-tracked with _“Patrick! Oh, fuck yes, PATRICK!”_

His hand is wet and slicked, fingers raising to his mouth and eyes fluttering closed as his tongue presses out to lap at them eagerly because fuck, that’s the taste, the smell of Pete’s cock. That’s the flavour that would linger in his mouth if he slipped to his knees and took Pete down. It’s too much, his hips surging forward once more to work the contracting, clenched-tight depth of Pete’s body. He whimpers beneath him, caught between begging for more and pleading for a reprieve, it’s there in the twitch of his spent cock between them as Patrick continues to feather _that_ spot inside of him. It’s all and more and something else as Pete rocks with him and mutters dirty promises of _next time_ into his ear that spark his blood like power surges.

 

It hits him like wildfire, tearing through him and leaving him gasping and breathless, his orgasm shuddering down to his bones as the first pulse throbs sharp and strong between his legs. He drops his head to Pete’s shoulder and cries out music into his ear, swears he sees it dancing behind closed eyes to spin with planets and stars and unknown galaxies that shine with pounding brilliance. He can taste it, smell it, hear it pounding like waves against his head as he thrusts and gasps and begs for something he can’t articulate. It steals his breath so he borrows from Pete, sucking oxygen from his mouth as he kisses him stupefied through the fog and haze and ringing ears as he clings to him weakly, through shuddering shocks that shake him insensible and leave him washed weak.

 

He comes back to himself by degrees, sensation and sense returning with leisurely lack of pace. For the longest moment he remains still, softening cock still pressed inside Pete, forehead dropped to the honeyed gold of a sweat-damp shoulder as time swirls around them inconsequential and meaningless. It’s never been like this for Patrick, this golden bubble of _themness_ with someone, comfortable and quiet without the need to get up and find a washcloth or the charger for his phone. It’s intense whilst feeling entirely natural and he wants it always as he raises his head slowly to meet the twinkle of a shining amber gaze.

 

“Fuck,” Pete huffs out a laugh, short and breathless.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees with a chuckle of his own because really, nothing else seems appropriate.

 

It takes a while but they move eventually, side by side with legs entangled as they stroke and kiss and whisper endearments. He wants to talk about the what comes next but decides it can wait, he hates goodbyes too much and doesn’t want this to be over before it’s even begun. He falls asleep curled close to Pete’s chest, long after the fireworks to mark the New Year have fallen silent. It’s a shame this couldn’t be the new beginning he wants it to be, but he’s grateful for the perfection of it nonetheless.

 

_~*~ Later ~*~_

 

There’s a moment during the night when Patrick wakes to the feather soft brush of lips to his neck, kisses like fire that make his back arch into the warm puzzle piece fit of Pete’s body. There are fingers grazing his ass with languid interest, that press between to test the butter soft pucker of his hole. Hot breath ghosts his throat as the fingers press forward, as a sleep-rasped voice whispers with tender cadence, “This okay?”

 

Patrick breathes his consent and half surrenders back to sleep because drifting somewhere in between stops him thinking about the morning to come. There’s a strong arm around his waist, a hand pressed to his heart as two fingers begin their careful breach of his body. Resistance gives as he breathes deeply, the lube cool and slick between his cheeks as Pete works him open with care. He’s not sure if he’s dreaming as fingers are replaced by the blunt head of Pete’s cock, if he’s awake or floating somewhere blissful as he inches inside, hand wrapped around Patrick’s dick.

 

He knows it can’t be real as hips rock against him, as lips bite kisses into his throat and he thrusts into a warm hand. He knows reality’s edges are blurred as the press of Pete inside of him stretches him exquisitely, as he pushes to the aching hum inside him that turns his thoughts to explosions, his bones to glass and his heart to a juddering throb. He knows it’s too good to be true as he comes across the sheets in the moment Pete locks up behind him, tense and tight, a whimper of Patrick’s name slicking from his lips like blood. He knows all of these things so it’s easy to sink back down into the mattress as Pete hauls him closer, as he tucks his nose to the curve of Patrick’s throat and whispers a declaration Patrick knows can’t be true.

 

He whispers it back anyway. It doesn’t matter if it’s a dream.

 

_~*~ New Year’s Day ~*~_

Pete blinks back into consciousness to the kind of milk-white light glowing golden through the window that lets him know he’s slept until mid-morning. He stretches each limb in turn, feels the delicious ache that throbs through his ass, the post-stretch burn of a sound fucking. Eyes closed but grin playing soft across his lips, he stretches an arm, reaching for the solid warmth of Patrick’s body but coming up with nothing more than cool sheets devoid of even a trace of body heat left lingering on the cotton.

 

He struggles upright, scrubbing grit from his eyes and searching the room as though there’s somewhere Patrick could hide. As though he could be in the closet, under the dresser or tucked behind the ornately carved headboard. As though Pete doesn’t already know the room is empty and he’s alone.

 

There’s a note on the nightstand, tucked under his wallet and topped with a pile of fifties. He shoves them to the side – funny they seemed to matter a week ago – and fumbles with the paper, smoothing the neat crease down the middle and reading with a head still half fuzzy with sleep.

 

_Pete,_

_~~Thank you so much for last night~~ _ _Last night was incredible! I just wanted you to know ~~it really meant a lot~~ I’ve really enjoyed your company this past ten days, you might ~~just be a snow bum~~ not be the kind of guy I’d usually hang out with but you’re ~~fucking awesome~~ kind of cool, I guess. _

_So, I’m really shitty at goodbyes ~~and I didn’t want to cry or whatever~~ so I’ve gone out for the morning. If you just want to leave that’s  fine and I won’t ~~come looking for you~~ make a big deal out of it. _

_~~Please call me~~ _ _So, if you wanted to call me or whatever, I’ve added my number. ~~I’d really like it if you did~~ If not I guess that’s cool too._

_~~You’re awesome~~ _ _Okay, I’m going to wrap this up now. So, just goodbye I guess, it’s been so much fun._

_~~Love~~ _

_Patrick_

Pete doesn’t pause to think as he roots around on the floor for his clothes, doesn’t worry that his jeans and leather jacket are woefully inadequate for chasing someone across a ski resort halfway up a mountain but it doesn’t matter. The thought of Patrick puts a glow of warmth in his chest that burns brighter than summer sunlight and maybe he’s going to be knocked back and maybe it can never work out but he needs to _try_ dammit, he needs to say he gave it his best shot. He hammers down the stairs three at a time, leaping wildly down the last five and skidding across the living room, much to the apparent surprise of Andy, curled on the couch under spare blankets. He blinks at Pete slowly like a sad little owl as he reaches for his glasses, not even waiting for the inevitable question that burns Pete’s tongue.

 

“About an hour ago,” he nods to the door. “He didn’t say where he was going. Go get him, tiger! Let’s have one good thing come out of this shitty fucking vacation.”

 

Pete stoops to retrieve his ugly scarf, winding it around his neck as he looks at Andy with uncertain sympathy, “You and Gabe – ”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Andy shakes his head vehemently and Pete doesn’t push it. “Just go and tell him how you feel.”

 

“Thanks,” Pete pauses for a moment at the door. “You’re an okay, dude, you know? Sorry we took your bed.”

 

“Go!” Andy urges with something close to a laugh. Pete goes.

 

The sun glows bright against the snow, deceptively bright given the way his breath hangs like fog and his ears burn with the cold. In any other circumstance, he might care about the way the snow seeps into the useless fabric of his Converse. In a different scenario, he might be concerned by the way his teeth rattle with icy shivers from the inadequacy of his leather jacket in sub-freezing temperatures. But this isn’t one of those situations, this is looking for Patrick – weird, grouchy, _perfect_ little Patrick – with an eager heart and feet that trip and skip against the ice.

 

The resort is sprawling and in reality, Patrick could be anywhere. But something compels him to check the lodge, sure he’ll be greeted with a sombre-shaded cardigan stretched across hunched shoulders, copper blonde hair falling over blocky-framed glasses and a glass cradled sure in his hands. Hands Pete has seen bunched into the crisp, cotton sheets of a ridiculous four-poster bed as he cried out his ecstasy to the ceiling above them.

 

But the bar stretches empty and Pete’s heart lurches, messy and uncertain in his chest as he staggers to a stop. It’s okay, he assures himself, there are literally dozens more places to check, restaurants and cafés, stores and hidden corners where Patrick could hide for a morning or more. He’ll find him, _he’ll find him_ , he just needs to calm down and –

 

“Looking for something?” Will appears at his elbow with a bright grin on his elfin features, an optic of vodka in his hands.

 

“Someone,” Pete corrects, eyes already on the door and heart already searching for the thing that he’s sure will keep it beating. “I have to go…”

 

“Patrick?” Will asks conversationally, as Pete falls into step with him across the room, even though he doesn’t mean to, even though he doesn’t _want_ to. “Maybe I can help.”

 

“Have you seen him?” Pete asks desperately, sliding onto a stool across the bar and accepting the glass that’s pushed into his hand. It’s too early for spirits but this doesn’t taste alcoholic as he knocks it back. Panic is constricting his lungs as he flashes a desperate glance around the room, as though he can summon Patrick there by sheer force of will. “I woke up this morning and… He was gone. He left money and to tell you the truth I’m sort of fucking pissed about that but… I need to find him.”

 

“Pete, breathe,” Will claps a reassuring hand to his shoulder and smiles that smile that Pete swears he can feel down to his bones. “You need to trust in a little holiday magic, okay? Now, have you tried the slopes?”

 

“The slopes?” Pete repeats, confusion making him slow, head a slow roll from side to side as he tries to make sense of the suggestion. “Why would he be on the slopes? He hates snowboarding.”

 

“I heard he got a great tutor,” Will smirks into the bright sparkle of a champagne flute, polishing it to gleaming perfection with his trusty cloth. “And it’s a wonderful morning for it, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“I gotta go,” Pete is already thundering his retreat across the polished hardwood floor, Converse a sharp squeak against the sleekly shining gleam of well-waxed oak. Blood rings in his ears so loudly he barely hears Will’s cheerful call of _“good luck,”_ as the door swings closed behind him.

 

He staggers and slips his way through the resort, skitters on feet chilled with the cold of snow that melts against the warmth of his socks, shudders as the cold bites through the thin cotton of his t shirt under his jacket. He wraps himself in his arms like it will help as he stumbles his way to the slope and shades his eyes against the glare of the sun. Snowboarders and skiers are picked out in points of colour against the perfect canvas of effortless white, purples and pinks and reds and blues and every hue in between. Some flash down effortlessly, others make their cautious, winding way with more care and less finesse but none are right, none are _Patrick._ This was a ridiculous notion, he should have tried the little café at the bakery, the ones that sells those plump, flaky croissants that Patrick liked so much.

 

Then he sees him.

 

Grey jacket soft against the snow, the flutter of copper blonde hair peeking soft and fluffy under the edge of his hat. Even from a distance, even against the glare of the snow, Pete can see the expression of intense concentration etched into features he wants to kiss every inch of, the sheer _determination_ that glows from him like something palpable. He’s slow and unflashy, cautious and careful, but he doesn’t waver or wobble, keeps his knees soft and relaxed as he leans into a turn and makes his way down the slope and towards Pete. Actually, directly towards Pete. As though that’s what he intends to do but he’s not looking at him, staring at something off in the distance with that frown of concentration creased into his brow.

 

Pete wants to cheer. He wants to holler and whoop and stomp his feet like he did on karaoke night. But, as Patrick stutters to a stop a mere twenty feet or so from him, he finds he’s too fucking cold to do much more than stagger forward on frozen feet with a hoarse cry of, “You fucking did it! You relaxed your damn knees!”

 

_“Pete?”_ He even remembers to click his feet to the left and Pete glows with pride. Pride and maybe a touch of hypothermia. Whatever, it doesn’t fucking matter as they both tumble towards one another and, on the cold of the mountainside, he swears the heat of Patrick’s lips against his are enough to warm him. “What the hell are you doing out here dressed like that, asshole?”

 

“Y-you left,” Pete stammers around clattering teeth because _holy fucking shit_ is it cold out here or what? “You left a stack of bills and no _you_ and… Fuck that, man, I- you don’t get to _do_ that!”

 

Patrick is struggling out of his thick ski jacket and draping it around Pete’s trembling shoulders with a chuckle and disbelieving shake of his head. Pete wants to object but fuck it’s so _warm_ and it smells delightfully like Patrick so he goes with it, tilts his head to brush another kiss to the plush softness of Patrick’s Chapstick slicked lips.

 

“Pete,” Patrick points out gently. “I’m leaving tomorrow – ”

 

“Could we, like, talk about this someplace else?” Pete begs, cold water leaking through his socks. “Someplace warm, maybe?”

 

“I swear to God, Pete,” Patrick rolls his eyes but grabs his board like a pro, huffing out faked irritation as Pete nuzzles into his neck with a grateful sigh. “Who comes charging up the side of a goddamn mountain in Converse?”

 

“A fool in love!” Pete declares dramatically, falling silent under the sharp glare he receives in response. Maybe it would be best to stay quiet until they’re sat down.

 

Ten minutes later, he can feel himself thawing out as they sip coffee – hazelnut latte for Pete with extra drizzle and black-no-sugar for Patrick – and split a cinnamon bun the size of a dinner plate in the tiny bakery café on the resort. There’s a fleck of frosting clinging to Patrick’s lip and he can’t resist the urge to lean in and swipe it away with a curl of his tongue. Patrick grins around the yelp of _“ew,”_ but the smile dies slowly on his lips as he stares down at his coffee with a sad little sigh.

 

“I told you I hate goodbyes,” he grouses. “I’m going home tomorrow, Pete.”

 

Pete doesn’t want wistful sighs and a mouth turned down in regret, he wants the smiles from the night before, the way Patrick _glowed_ for him against cotton sheets.

 

“Maybe we can make it work,” Pete mutters, sliding his hand to cover Patrick’s against the table, the caramel of his skin a sharp contrast against the cream of Patrick’s. “I only have a couple more weeks here and – ”

 

“I live in LA,” Patrick blurts out all in a rush, face flushing red and eyes meeting miserable with Pete’s. Pete pauses, takes a breath and stares back into swirling depths of eyes like sunrise on riptide. “I- I’m a record producer. I live in LA, not Chicago, I didn’t mean to lie to you but…”

 

Did he lie? Pete doesn’t recall ever asking where Patrick lives; sure, he’d presumed Chicago with the accent and the talk of Glenview and the skin as pale and rich as rose petals. Still, he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as he strokes the back of Patrick’s hand with tender warmth. The confusion that floods Patrick’s face is adorable, the stutter of breath as Pete cups his cheek and draws him in for a kiss that’s spiced with cinnamon and clinging with the bitter burn of Guatemalan roast is heavenly. They kiss like no one’s watching, inquisitive tongues and hands that grasp at hair until they’re softly breathless with it. For Patrick, presumably, it’s a goodbye and his eyes glisten diamond damp as he pulls back with a half-hidden sniff into the back of his wrist.

 

“Me too,” Pete whispers into the pocket of golden silence between them, elation tingling through him as Patrick’s eyes jolt up in shock, as his mouth falls deliciously slack and he stammers something that doesn’t make sense. Pete’s grin curves wide and shining as he cups Patrick’s face in both hands and repeats like Patrick is an idiot. “Me too. I’m a fucking _fashion designer_ , dude, where the hell else would I live in the off season? Besides, it’s easy to pick up surf work in Malibu and – ”

 

It’s impossible to say anything else as Patrick leaps into his lap, arms wound around his neck as he peppers Pete’s mouth with dozens of pecked kisses until Pete can ease him back with a breathless whisper, “Does this mean we…?”

 

“Oh yes,” Patrick sighs against his lips as his heart beats a golden tattoo from the inside that fills him with swirling, molten warmth in spite of the cold, wet socks. “I think there’s a definite _we.”_

“Happy New Year’s, baby.”

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161115749@N03/38897616831/in/dateposted/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. It’s always kind of nerve wracking throwing something out there and this was way out of my comfort zone so...
> 
> Yeah, comments, kudos etc all very much appreciated!


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